


The Bells of Passion's Watch

by swooning



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post Hogwarts AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swooning/pseuds/swooning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A response to Ladyofthemasque's "Lost in a Book" challenge: Severus and Hermione are stranded in a romance novel... this time, at sea! Hilarity and smut ensue.</p><p>An extremely AU fluff fic. Originally posted at Ashwinder, like, a million years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

In the final analysis, it was all Fred's fault. Not Fred and George together, as was so often the case (they worked it that way purposely, Hermione had deduced, as if by sharing the guilt they could somehow dilute it by half), but purely Fred.

For Fred it was who had uttered those fateful words, the words Hermione suspected would haunt her until the end of her days: "We can't keep the daydreams on the shelf. We need to expand the line with something longer, like… full-length romance novels!"

Yes, that had been Fred. George had, of course, thought the idea simply spiffing, and together the twins had modified the Pensieve spells to create their prototype.

But for the fact that she found herself in this specific predicament, Hermione knew, she had only herself to blame. Only herself to kick, for flippantly outlining the plot as they all laughed over drinks that night. Only herself to smack on the forehead, for agreeing to co-author the book with Ginny. And only herself, in truth, for being mad enough not only to let the twins pull her re-reading of the manuscript out of her mind and bind it into the pages of the prototype, but to agree under great duress  _(Why, why, why?)_  to take the first test-read, to see if her memory and her experience matched up.

 _If only, if only,_  she said to herself, futilely. If only all that had not happened, she would not be where she was now: watching helplessly from inside her own head, as her traitorous lips opened with a dainty sigh to accept those of the sneering sea captain in black… the sneering sea captain she had tried, and failed, to avoid shaping in the image of Severus Snape.


	2. In the Beginning

"We can't keep the daydreams on the shelf. We need to expand the line with something longer, like… full-length romance novels!" Fred's eyes gleamed at the prospect, while Ginny's eyes rolled in disgust. She had adored Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' pre-packaged daydreams as a feckless girl of fourteen or so, but now – at the advanced age of nineteen, and happily engaged – she had little but scorn to spare for such fancies.

"You're making people pay you to rot their minds for them," she told her brother, who paid no attention now his new idea was taking hold.

"Romance novels… or more," suggested George, then almost immediately shook his head.

"Limited market," the twins said in tandem.

"Too controversial," continued Fred.

"Taints the more popular product," agreed George. "Need to keep it – "

"—closer to the mainstream," Fred chimed in. "We want to appeal to people's low tastes, of course, but there's a limit to how low even we will go."

"Is there?  _Really?_ " enquired Hermione. She was observing the Weasleys' exchange over the top of her glass.

"Hermione, darling, we're hurt."

"Deeply, deeply hurt."

"We strive to bring our customers only the very best in intimate entertainment, you know," said Fred with a wounded expression.

"I can't imagine why anyone would want to read one of those things, anyway, much less become a participant," sniffed Hermione, taking a dainty sip of her wine. "A monkey could write one."

"You're such an awful snob, Hermione," commented Ginny mildly, reaching for the bottle and topping off her glass. At Harry's gesture, she took a brief detour to refill his own goblet as well, before returning the nearly-empty wine bottle to the kitchen table.

The ritual of these Friday nights at the Burrow had begun shortly after Harry, Ron and Hermione finished school. Now, some two years later, the circle had expanded to include George, Fred, and Ginny. The twins insisted, generously, that many of their best new ideas were spawned on these nights. As a young teacher, Hermione just found it useful to have a regular social gathering without the risk of having some errant Hogwarts student (or worse, a parent) catch her misbehaving.

"It's just that those books are all the same, aren’t they? I mean, what would be the point?" Hermione asserted.

"How would you know they're all the same, then?" Ginny asked with a sly twist.

Hermione gave her a look that was withering, but not without its humor. "I was a fourteen-year-old girl once, too, Ginny. But by fourteen and a half, the fascination had worn off."

"All right, if you're such an expert… what are they all like, then, these books that are all the same?" Fred leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with wine and nascent prurience.

"Yeah, Hermione, give us a sample, there's a girl," George added, and Harry and Ron raised their glasses in enthusiastic support.

"You're barking," she replied coldly, attempting to stare them down.

"She can't do it."

"Right, well, she's no monkey, is she?"

"Certainly can't put her money where her mouth is, can sh—"

"Oh, piss off," Hermione snapped. "You want the plot? Fine. It's really so simple it's pathetic, though. Always the same. Rather silly virgin girl meets rather dashing older man who is thinly disguised as a bad boy. Often there is some sort of kidnapping involved, here. He plans to coerce her out of her virtue, but ends up being overcome by her naïve bravery, not to mention her flawless skin, tiny waist, and the bosom she's embarrassed to find has grown distressingly large in the past few years."

"And heaving, don't forget heaving," Fred threw in, enthralled already at the story Hermione was spinning.

"Yes, her breasts and her eyes are both too large for true beauty, while her full lips form a perpetual pout that is scarcely in keeping with the innocent blush that so often stains her ivory cheeks," Hermione replied blithely, restraining a grin at the smattering of applause from the assembled listeners. She was enjoying herself, despite her best efforts; she was rarely able to command the attention of this crowd for quite this long. "As I said, the same every time. Then," she continued, "he decides he will seduce her, rather than take her by force, and she, poor winsome thing, is so unsophisticated she scarcely has a clue what he's doing. All she knows is that she feels a heat she has never known, the location of which can be described with varying degrees of specificity depending on the sort of rating you have in mind."

"18," said George promptly.

"R18," suggested Ginny.

"No," insisted Fred, "it couldn't be anything over 15. Maybe even 12. Wider market, remember? Then maybe, at some point, we could come out with a more specialized, adult-only version for our more discriminating clientele. Select advertising only, of course."

"Well, for 12, let's just leave it at 'a heat she has never known,' shall we? Perhaps a bit more detail later in the book. And her reason -- if she has any to begin with, which I doubt -- is overcome. Because naturally, the earth moves for them both, thanks to his consummate skill as a lover. Of course, he's tortured by guilt after he succeeds, not that he'd ever admit it. He feels consigned to his life of loneliness and bitter solitude, and now he has to contemplate losing this sole ray of light in an otherwise barren darkness. So he's cold and awful to the girl for a bit, trying to make her hate him, so he won't have to face her look of exquisite, shattered, misery."

"But she can't hate him," supplied Ginny, "because he's ruined her for everyone else, and she can never think of another man again."

"Of course not," agreed Hermione. "Especially not her seemingly perfect, but actually highly suspect, fiancé back home. To whom she tries to dissemble once she gets there, when all she can really do with her sweet, loving heart is weep for her lost innocence and the only man she can ever love. Who, of course, comes to rescue her after finding out about some plot the dastardly fiancé has going."

"And then they ride off happily into the sunset?" asked Ron, who found himself oddly drawn in to the storyline.

Hermione gave this a moment's thought. "No… sail off, I think. I envision him as a sea captain. A disinherited second son, perhaps?"

"The younger brother of the dastardly fiancé!" Ginny was almost bouncing in her chair with glee.

"No, an uncle, I think. Because he should be… a little older. Old enough to be world weary," replied Hermione with a secret smile.

Fred and George were staring at her, eyes agleam. Hermione, with a start, recognized too late that she had done all too well.

"Brilliant…" the twins breathed in unison, and started drafting a contract on a paper serviette before Hermione had a chance to protest.


	3. Anchors Aweigh

As is so often the case with fantastic ideas that sound simple, the twins soon found their new product development effort fraught with unexpected complications. How to take the images of the completed novel from the author's mind to the printed page, and then reproduce that process in a relatively efficient and cost-effective manner? How, next, to immerse the reader into the desired character's viewpoint? Would the consumer have any control over the events or outcome of the story, or simply be along for the ride? And how best to activate the product: by opening a lock on the book, by reading a particular passage, or by some separate incantation to be spoken at the desired time? If the last, would there actually need to be a printed book at all?

"I just said I would write the book, that's  _all_ ," growled Hermione, for what felt like the hundredth time since signing that ill-fated contractual serviette. "I have no idea whether people will want to be able to read the bloody thing instead of living through it. Fred, what on earth do you think you're doing?" Her voice rose with alarm as Fred approached her, wand raised, a mien of deep concentration making him look almost unrecognizable.

"This part is simple, really," he said, relaxing into a familiar smile. "George and I have tested it, and it's perfectly safe."

She knew him too well to be comforted in the slightest; in fact, quite the opposite was true. Shrinking back, she glared at him fiercely.

" _What_  is perfectly safe? And don't you come near me with that thing, Fred Weasley, until you've answered to my satisfaction."

"This bit of the spell, that's all," Fred said genially, lowering his wand. "Quite clever, if I do say so myself. We've just made the slightest modification to the Pensieve process."

"'Slight,' in this context, meaning 'ingenious, monumental, and liable to change the lives of law enforcers and suspicious wives everywhere if it ever leaks out,'" quipped George.

"You see, a memory retrieved to put into a Pensieve is just that: a memory. Not a subjective experience, but a complete picture of whatever has happened to that person during the time in question. But of course there are  _elements_  of subjectivity there –"

"It's only one person's viewpoint," interjected George, "and it records only what the person can actually experience with his own senses, even though it captures much more than the person might recall on his own."

"It's basically capturing all the sensory information the brain has stored for an event, consciously or unconsciously. So we thought," continued Fred, "or actually George said… what was it you said, George?"

"'Fred, old bean,' I said, 'wouldn't that Pensieve just like to know whether what these two brains have stored over the years bears  _any >_ relation to what our senses have experienced?" George grinned rakishly, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"George, of course, has a very rich fantasy life," said Fred smoothly, with a smile one might easily construe as patronizing.

"While Fred, of course, has become so good at believing his own blather –"

"Easy there, brother."

"—that he can occasionally fool even our mother with his sincerity." Both twins raised their eyes briefly to the heavens in a tandem display of grudging respect for their worthiest adversary.

"So what you're suggesting is…" Hermione wasn't sure whether or not she could believe what she thought they were suggesting; she wasn't sure whether she wanted to believe it.

"We worked out how to Pensieve a fantasy." George's eyes lit up as he said it, gleaming with the possibilities their discovery held.

"A really detailed one, it has to be," Fred expanded, "that you've had over and over. Or one you've thought out in advance, with as much attention to actual sense memory experiences as possible. The smells, the sounds."

"What things would taste like," George went on, "the particular quality of the light, the precise features and expressions on the faces of the people you're talking to, or as it may be, er… well, shagging senseless." He lacked the decency to blush. Rather, his face conveyed a cheerful, boyish enthusiasm that a less hardened woman would probably find appealing. Hermione, however, was not such a woman. She had known the twins far too long.

"Why do I suspect you tested this more than once, after you found a workable process?" Hermione was still reluctant to act as guinea pig for George and Fred, but was certain that in this instance, as opposed to their practice with some of their less savoury products, the proprietors of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had sampled their own creation quite freely and were probably telling the truth when they said it was safe. "All right, then, Fred. What do you need me to do? I'm still not keen on just allowing you to come near me with your wand drawn, I must add."

 

* * * * *

 

Because the boys had stressed the importance of sensory details, Hermione had requested a stay, ostensibly so she might decide which scene in the book she would try to imagine for them first. Before she opened her word-processed, ring-bound copy, however, she knew which scene she would use. She could already imagine every detail, in fact. The slight clamminess of the sheets, making them heavy against her legs. The tang of salt in the air, and on her lips, and the muted, evocative sound of the watch bells ringing somewhere outside the cabin, up abovedecks. The only light would be the grayish-pink glow of an overcast dawn, shining through the two portholes in the wall over the captain's table, just visible through the partly-drawn green velvet curtains that shielded the bunk alcove. The portholes, she imagined, would bear just the slightest sheen of condensation…

Hermione's nimble fingers scrawled rapid notes in the margin as her eyes scanned the relevant pages. The layers of smells, the quality of the motion of the waves, how many times the bells might chime; no detail was too small to escape her notice.

"Remember to envision it first-person," reminded Fred helpfully. "Start with just a place, no people."

"I've got it," she said triumphantly, finishing a last note with a flourish of her quill. "I'm there. Let's go ahead and do this now, before I return to my senses and run screaming from this madhouse you call a shop."

"Right you are. No sense beating around a dead bush, when you can cut straight to the horse. So… wand at the ready, Fred?"

"Got it. Okay, then, Hermione. Start… your… fantasy!"

After a brief pause, during which Hermione was unsure just what to do, she closed her eyes and imagined herself in the captain's bunk once more. A seagull cried, high and faint, and the roll and pitch of the waves became a rhythmic press and release on her back and legs as she feigned slumber.

_The salt on her lips piqued her thirst, and she risked raising one eyelid just a tiny fraction to see if the coast was clear. Past the narrow vista of wrinkled white muslin, the smell faintly musty so near her nose, past the slightly threadbare edge of the red velvet curtain that separated the small alcove from the cabin proper, she had a partial view of the captain's table, its dark teak looking almost black in the faint, dreary morning light. Above the table, the paneled wall was broken by two portholes; the gray light of dawn, tinged with red, was further filtered by the thin sheen of condensation that covered the thick glass._

_Helena could hear the watery sounds of the voyage, the ocean sounding as suspiciously calm as it felt. When, she wondered, had she acquired a weather sense? Some part of her knew, in the way of animals before an earthquake, that the sea was too quiet, that something else was to come. The sudden foreboding caused the fine hairs on the back of her slender neck to prickle uncomfortably._

_Lifting her head the tiniest bit, she peered warily in the other direction. It caused a little strain on her neck, uncomfortable but not actually painful. Her hair, which someone had evidently released from its bandeau, suddenly slipped down, tumbling in chestnut ringlets over her face and obstructing her view. She lifted the offending tresses silently aside, and saw the cabin door, shut firm, and past it the curious chest of shallow drawers where the captain kept his charts and maps._

_The captain, Helena wondered, where was he? Just as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a warm presence behind her in the narrow berth, and startled at the fine but weathered hand that slipped over her waist, sending shivers of desire coursing downward—_

"Right, then, let's see what we have, shall we?" Fred, or perhaps George, commented briskly, ending the spell with a snap of the wand that brought Hermione sharply back to her surroundings. She realized, seeing the thin, silver wisp that he trailed into the waiting salver, that the twin had been pulling her false memory from her mind, even as she had constructed it.

"You have a go, George," he said, stepping back to allow his brother to lean over the shallow dish where the constructed reality now pooled in a misty swirl.

"Why do I have to go? That makes me the girl."

"I have nothing further to say," quipped Fred, gesturing with his wand towards the dish. Resigned, George leaned in, steeled himself, and let his mind plunge in.

Nothing happened.

Hermione stared from one twin to the other, bemused. Fred stood staring at the dish, with a look of some satisfaction. George, on the other hand, seemed stuck in his slightly bent-over position, hands on the edge of the table, longish hair flopping forward over the salver. After a moment, Hermione realized that George was actually in the "memory," and that his body was in some sort of stasis.

"This bit's vital, we thought," explained Fred while they watched and waited. "See, once he enters the scene, he'll be in perfect suspended animation, and also protected from physical damage, until he comes out again. By the way, how long does your story take, anyway?"

"How long? Oh, a few months, I suppose. They sail to Gibraltar and back, and then there are some scenes in England, before and after. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Fred assured her a bit too quickly. "Just a glitch we're still working out."

"What glitch?" Hermione insisted. "You didn't say anything about a glitch before."

"Nothing of any consequence, love. Only the memories we create do seem just a smidge different from true memories in a Pensieve. With respect to, ah… time." At her glare, Fred sighed and went on. "An ordinary memory, when you view it in a Pensieve, it's in sort of subjective time. You know the way you can dream, and the events of the dream seem to take quite a long while, but then you realize you were only asleep for a few minutes? What we normally see in a Pensieve is a bit like that. Useful, lets you sort through things faster, and so on."

"So how is this different?"

"Well, what we're putting into the modified Pensieve, using our new process, seems to happen in something more like, ah, real time."

"Real time?"

"Yeah, that's right. Real time, you know… nothing of any consequence, like I said. And it's a brilliant piece of magic, even if it isn’t quite like the real thing."

"How do you get the imagined scenes into the book, anyway?” Hermione asked idly, still watching George stand transfixed; she wondered what his reaction might be to the end of her little snippet of story.

“Simple as simple, that bit,” Fred chirped brightly. “A memory doesn’t have to be reproduced as a wisp of silver smoke in a dish, you know, that’s really just for effect. It’s traditional. But you can attach it to just about anything. Once we have the full book in the Pensieve, all the scenes, we transfer the lot to a spool of thread. Any snipped-off strand of which will retain the character of the original.”

“Really?” As was so often the case, Hermione was astonished at the twins’ ability to demonstrate, in the real world, a practicality and cleverness with complex theoretical magic that would surely have garnered them top marks and general acclamation had they applied it to actual schoolwork during their Hogwarts days.

“Absolutely. We get cheap copies of the book made, charm or even weave a thread into each cover, then a simple activating spell when you open it and you’re in business. Looks like a book, reads like a dream.” Fred’s eyes glazed a bit, as if he were already envisioning this slogan writ large on an advertising banner.

George chose that moment to surface with a gasp, startling both his brother and the anxious authoress. His broad grin and wink left no doubt in Hermione’s mind that he had grasped the import of the final moments of the fantasy. Nevertheless, he kept the information to himself, and pronounced the experiment a resounding success. Much merriment ensued, after which the twins shooed Hermione back to her flat to continue preparations for recording the entire novel as a memory.

 

* * * * *

 

Hermione had not felt reassured upon learning that the twins’ inspiration for the Pensieve spell modification had actually been the Horcrux made of Tom Riddle’s diary. But a contract was a contract, and reluctantly she made her preparations, spun her story out in her mind for the taking, and watched in mild astonishment as the wheels of production and marketing began to turn.

Only one final step remained, and it was the step that worried Hermione the most.

“I still remember when you two were developing those atrocious Nosebleed Nougats, and I do  _not_  want to be the first one to go into that thing,” she reiterated, to no avail. Fred and George, short-handed at the shop, continued making hurried last-minute adjustments to the back room, periodically dashing out to help the sole clerk wait on customers, and generally ignoring Hermione’s repeated refusals.

"What about the bits in between?" asked Ginny, who was still making a half-hearted effort to lobby on Hermione’s behalf. "Did you work that out? What will she experience then?"

"If all goes well…"

“When!” George corrected his twin.

“ _When_  it all comes off as planned, those bits just… well, they won’t come into it at all. You didn’t imagine them, did you, Hermione? So they won’t be in the story.” Fred sounded glib and smooth, only increasing Hermione’s anxiety. However, he had already produced the contract and pointed out the clause that did, indeed, obligate Hermione to continue development through successful testing. She knew she was stuck, though how he had managed to sneak so much fine print into a contract jotted in great haste on a smallish disposable serviette, she was still unsure.

The inevitable risk of signing a contract when inebriated, Fred had merely chided her smugly. The preparations being complete, he led Hermione firmly to a chair at the small table upon which a galley proof of the book lay waiting. 

 

* * * * *

 

 _Liber spiramentum_ , Hermione repeated to herself as she fell dizzily through the silvery swirls,  _Liber spiramentum_ … it was the “safe” word, the incantation to pause the story and exit the book before its end; Hermione rehearsed it in her mind like a mantra as the scene of a somewhat formal garden and lawn coalesced around her.

The first segment of the book, a prologue set some days prior to the action of the story, involved only the peripheral characters. Hermione had opted to begin her own foray into fiction a few pages later, with the first point at which her character appeared; it was a brief set-up chapter with no dialogue and, indeed, no other characters in it until the very last lines. She had nothing to distract her, therefore, from wandering about the garden, as her character was meant to do, thinking rather Elizabeth-Bennet-like thoughts, admiring the mild spring weather, and cutting the occasional early rose from the overgrown bushes and climbers lining the flagged path and adjacent mossy brick wall. A garden that almost seemed slightly run amok, she noted with approval… it seemed that way, of course, only until one noted the total absence of weeds, and the razorlike precision of the trimmed boxwood hedges. She noted, with further approval, each detail coming to life just as she had imagined it: the sharp, slightly earthy smell of the recently-trimmed lawn and hedges, barely detectable under the rose-scented breeze that wafted through the courtyard despite the surrounding walls; the late afternoon light, slanting across the garden, dappling as it streamed through the trees just beyond the wall…

Distracted by the vision she had created, Hermione caught the toe of one slipper on the edge of a flagstone and cried out, suddenly stumbling from the path and just missing a particularly thorny Bourbon rose. She landed, instead, in a thick patch of irises, and regained her feet unbruised but rather grubby.

“Oh, bother,” she intoned breathily, on cue and in character, raising her dress hem a few inches to inspect the state of the insulted slipper. It was – or had been – a delicate creation of cream-colored kid leather and dainty pink ribbons; now, sadly, its beauty was marred by a nasty scuff across the toe.

_The slowly sinking sun cast its lengthening shadows across the swath of lawn, as Helena stood in frowning contemplation of her once-fair shoe._

_“At least I have my new pair for the Sackville’s party tonight,” she sighed. So lost in thought was she about that much-anticipated social event, she failed at first to hear her name being called. When the voice came again, closer and more irritated, Helena came to herself with a fetching little start of surprise. She saw her former governess, now an untitled but indispensable family retainer, just marching past the archway that led into the rose garden._

_“Margaret! I’m here,” she replied in her sweet, slightly husky voice. Dropping her skirt and gathering her basket of blossoms, she fairly flew back along the path toward Margaret, thinking of nothing but the party to come. Hugo had already spoken to Mama and Uncle Jeremy, although Helena wasn’t meant to know about that. And tonight, she knew, Hugo was determined. Tonight, she knew, was the night he would at last propose!_

And with that Hermione sighed, relieved and pleasantly surprised that the first part of her adventure had gone so smoothly. Then she hesitated, as the vague figure of the governess character slowly faded from view, the breeze died down to nothing, and the background chatter of birds and hum of insects gave way to a stillness that could only be described as eerie. As the seconds passed, and the scene did not give way to the Sackville’s party as she expected, Hermione’s disquiet grew.

She walked along the path a little, to the point at which she had mapped a junction with a wide walk leading to the manor house of Helena’s uncle. The walk was there, with its hardwood trees and view of the valley below. And the manor house was there, albeit dimly rendered, as if shrouded in a fog despite the clarity of the air.

“It isn’t clear anymore, though, is it?” Hermione heard her own voice, too loud in the stillness, but at the same time with a muffled quality, as if it did not carry on the air at all. “It isn’t… anything.” Indeed, far from the rosy sunset she had envisioned for the prior scene, she saw only a hazy blue-gray, a little paler than twilight. The sun, she noted, was still sinking at what seemed the proper rate; it was simply doing so with no interesting details.

With a tiny growl of disgust, Hermione felt for the little locket-sized pocket watch she knew she ought to be carrying, and checked the time. It, too, seemed to be progressing at the proper rate.

“I’m going to kill them!” Hermione exclaimed, realizing what must have happened. “ _Liber spiramentum!_ ”

The sun continued to sink. The clock continued to tick. Hermione glared at both, her boiling rage beginning to vie for space with a growing sense of panic.

 _“Liber spiramentum_!” she cried again. “ _Liber spiramentum, LIBER SPIRAMENTUM…_ Fred and George Weasley,  _I am going to kill you BOTH!_ ”

This, too, fell on the dead air with no impact, and as the sun finally slipped below the horizon, Hermione realized she was in for a very long few months indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My own vision of this garden (ergo Hermione’s vision of the garden) was inspired in large part by the gardens of Sissinghurst Castle, Vita Sackville-West’s garden (I chose these gardens with absolutely no regard for historical accuracy – they’re too recent -- but simply because I adore them and wanted to write a setting like them). I won’t include a link, but feel free to google “Sissinghurst Castle Garden” if you’re a fellow floraphile or rosarian. Their website has a great photo gallery – serious eye candy for those so inclined. Be sure to go to the index for a complete listing of gallery pages! My particular inspirations were the rose garden, the white garden, and portions of the tower lawn.


	4. The Captain Boards His Ship

Loos. She should have visualized a loo in excruciatingly accurate detail for each setting, as she now realized. Historical accuracy be damned. The importance of the absent loo had taken a quantum leap with her move from the manor house to the cramped quarters of the ship, and now formed a constant, nagging undercurrent to her already overflowing stream of thought.

 _Note to self: avoid thinking words like “undercurrent,” “overflowing,” “stream,”_  Hermione chided herself. The chamber pot would have to do, there was nothing else for it. And between times, well, it was simply best not to think of it at all. It was all in her mind, after all, as she continually told herself; it availed her little, though, as her mind kept insisting that if her imagined self felt hungry and thirsty, and partook of an imagined meal or drink, the inevitable result must eventually be imagined as well. Because it all  _felt_  real. Keeping her mind distracted from this sort of cause-effect chain was nearly a full-time job.

At the moment, however, her mind was focused primarily on the work at hand, which was trying to finish writing out a fair copy of the book to help her recall which scene to expect next. Hermione had found the most unsettling part of her experience was not the dreary, undetailed, weatherless time between scenes; rather, it was the disconcertingly immediate transition from the dead time to the new scene, finding oneself slammed into a new location, a new set of clothing, even a conversation, with no warning whatsoever. After the first few harrowing shifts, she had attempted to anticipate changes whenever possible, and either steel herself in advance or even move to the approximate location she expected to be in when the scene began. Doing so lessened the impact somewhat, though could not remove it entirely.

Hermione felt, too, that keeping track of the story helped her maintain what slender thread still tethered her sanity to her self. Although she had long since realized she was most likely stuck for the duration of the book, and she knew that was a finite sentence, she struggled constantly with the irrational but undeniable fear of becoming permanently mired in this ghastly, treacly world of her own creation. With no loo, damn it all. The handwritten copy might be imperfect, but it would suffice for a rough calendar against which to mark the days until her ordeal was over. Three weeks had passed so far, twenty-one days counting this one which was nearly over; she estimated at most another sixty-four days to go, and possibly as few as fifty-seven. Sadly, she could not recall each distinct “one week later,” “five days hence,” and “that next Thursday” she had included, so a rough estimate was the best she could do.

So, seventy-eight to eighty-five days in the world of the book, and in the real world as well, she believed… all that time, with her unconscious body in the care of Fred and George Weasley. She suppressed that thought quite firmly as being seriously counterproductive to a healthy state of mind, and flipped back through her handwritten pages to find the scene she knew was coming up shortly. In about another fifteen minutes, if she gauged the sun’s progress and the ship’s bells correctly; just at sundown, here in the cabin, her latest confrontation with the captain would take a new turn, signaling an end to their icy exchanges and bringing them into warm and dangerous waters indeed.

Hermione had to admit that, despite the impossible situation, she was actually rather enjoying the book bits. Oh, it was tripe, but beautifully described tripe if she did say so herself, and the captain… well, he was everything she had envisioned, of course. She shivered with anticipation, smiled quietly to herself, and started skimming back over the scene leading up to this next. One slim reward in all this – aside, of course, from the obscenely large pots of money she would demand from the Weasley twins once she got out – was that she, Hermione Granger, know-it-all, voice of reason, avowed reader of only the worthy or practical, could safely indulge in such a guilty pleasure with no fear of being found out.

 

* * * * *

 

“It’s been three  _weeks_ , George. We  _have_  to tell somebody. At least the Headmistress. We don’t want Hermione to lose her position when she doesn’t show up at the start of term. Or perhaps at St. Mungo’s, someone might be able to–“

“Ginny, we’ve been through all this with you. Hermione signed that contract, she knew the risks, and anyway she’s safe as kittens as long as we have her in stasis.” George gestured to Hermione, who still sat at the little table in the office where she had started her literary journey three weeks earlier. “Moving her at this juncture, on the other hand, involves many unknown variables, and could be potentially harmful, even lethal.” He thoughtfully brushed a small accumulation of dust from Hermione’s shoulder, ignoring Ginny’s glare.

“She’s going to kill you when she gets out, you know,” Ginny said in a matter-of-fact way. “Both of you.”

“Not this time, Ginny my love. This time it’s all Fred’s fault,” George insisted, suppressing a grin as his brother walked through the door to the office.

“What’s my fault?” Fred asked, predictably. Ginny was only too happy to remind him.

“You got Hermione into this in the first place,” she chirped, “and then you were the one who cocked up the time factor, forgot to add the charm for the safe word, and stranded her in there for three months. So you are the one she is going to kill.”

“Ah.”

“She’s got you there, Fred,” George said cheerfully.

“Ah, that she does. But I think you both underestimate the secret weapon that is the Weasley charm!”

Both his siblings regarded Fred as if already beginning to mourn his passage from this world to the next, and his smile faltered just a bit.

“The Weasley charm,” he repeated.

On the little table, the book automatically turned a page as the story progressed; the subtle scratching of the paper fell loudly on the gravid silence that followed Fred’s words. At last, he shrugged and grinned again, a little ruefully.

“At least I have another few months to live,” he pointed out. “And who knows? Perhaps she’s enjoying herself.” As one, three ginger heads bent over the page to see what their heroine was up to. They responded at the same time, Ginny with a giggle and the twins with a tandem snort.

“Well, she seems to be enjoying  _that_ ,” Ginny agreed.

A sudden flurry of raised voices from beyond the door sent the twins scrambling back into the shop to see what the commotion was about. At the counter, the beleaguered clerk was cringing before the wrath of a very cranky, snow-bedecked Severus Snape, whose voice only lowered and became more menacing as the clerk’s grew louder and squeakier.

“Ah, Professor, and what can we do for you this fine afternoon, sir?” Fred offered breezily, shooing the timid clerk away from the counter; the grateful fellow quickly disappeared between the displays, leaving the Weasleys alone with their customer.

“You can spare me your attempt at pleasantry, and fetch me the package the Headmistress sent me for without wasting any more of my valuable time,” snapped the Dark Arts master. Although no longer the terrifying ogre of yore now that he was a decorated war hero, Snape still cut a formidable figure, and even a Weasley twin was prone to courtesy around him.

“Ah, the goods for Hogmanay night. Yes, of course, very good, sir. George, it’s in the back, if you would?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll just toddle off to fetch that bundle, then,” George replied, bolting towards the back in evident relief to leave the Professor to his brother.

“The Headmistress declined to explain why the purchases might not simply be owled, or brought by Floo, Weasley. Perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten me?” Snape’s hiss made it clear that this was not a request.

“Oh, too volatile, sir. I can’t disclose the exact contents of the package, of course, as the Headmistress insisted it be a surprise. But the very idea of mixing Floo powder with… well, sir, that would be a very exciting Floo journey indeed. And a team of owls might drop it, which could be equally disastrous. You’ll be taking it back on the next Express, I gather? Ah, here’s George back!”

“By broom,” muttered Snape darkly, clearly displeased with this particular duty.

“I see.” Fred passed the large, bulky package in its innocuous, brown paper wrapping to his former teacher with exaggerated care; it smelled suspiciously of sulfur and other flammables, and Snape’s sensitive nose wrinkled in distaste. “Try not to drop it, sir.”

“Right.”

“Try  _very hard_ , sir,” Fred reiterated, clearly not joking at all.

But Snape wasn’t paying attention any longer, as his eye fell on the office door – which George had inadvertently left ajar – and the sight of Ginny and Hermione in the room beyond.

“Professor Granger,” he remarked, sounding somewhat annoyed. “She has a reference book of mine, which she was supposed to return two weeks ago. Here, let me by.” For Fred and George had moved swiftly to block his attempt to sweep past them towards the office door.

“That’s never Hermione, sir, that’s –“

“—Pamela, our new accountant. Same hair.”

“They’re mistaken for one another all the time.”

“All the time. Sir,” agreed Fred, nodding firmly and holding his ground.

Snape glared at them both; his baseline attitude towards all the Weasleys was one of deep suspicion in any case, and it took very little for him to plunge into full-scale paranoia where the twins were concerned.

“It  _is_  Professor Granger, I saw her plainly. And you  _will_  let me pass.” His deep growl sent the twins scrambling for another approach.

“Sir, it’s really better if you don’t go back there just now.”

“Yes, it’s quite complicated, but –“

”I  _beg_  your pardon?” Snape was beginning to feel some concern for his colleague; he might not care much for the brash Gryffindor, but she was a fellow staff member after all, and the only one with a private library to rival his own. Aside from Flitwick, of course; but who wanted to spend an evening arguing textual analysis with Flitwick over a bottle of wine?

“It’s just, ah, no customers in the back office. Sorry, sir, that’s company policy. You see, that’s… oh. That’s a very fine wand, Professor.” George stepped aside as Snape drew, knowing that he was no match for the Dark Arts master, and unwilling to risk having to rush himself or his brother to hospital to have anything removed, replaced, or regrown.

His hackles raised, Snape stalked past the twins, who followed him anxiously into the office, nearly running up against his back as he stopped cold a few steps from the table. It took him only seconds to grasp that something was far more wrong than usual, even for the Weasleys.

“What have you done to her?” he demanded icily, leaning in to scrutinize her entranced face more closely. Foregoing his wand, he used his hands to test the boundaries of the wards around his fellow teacher, and then circled around her to check the strength of the spells on the other side. “Answer me, or I call the Aurors now,” he added.

Fred and George stared at Ginny, who shrugged helplessly and turned towards Snape.

“She’s just in the book, Professor. Her body is here, in stasis – she’s quite safe, as you can see – but her mind is in the story of that book. And, well…”

“What? Tell me now, Miss Weasley, unless you wish to end up implicated as well!” Snape’s nostrils were beginning to flare, and he rounded the table to loom over Ginny. As he was quite a bit taller than she, this was easily accomplished.

“She’s stuck in there, sir, until the story ends. The boys hadn’t worked out the timing properly, and didn’t remember to include the safe word in the charms, and now we think she has to go through the entire story in real time to get out!” Ginny, usually the paragon of bravery, fairly cowered as Snape seemed to enlarge with rage.

“And you’ve notified no one about this? Nor sought help to release her from this? Just how long did you suppose you could hide your little project?” He turned to the table again, pointing to the book as it turned another page. “By my estimate, she’s not even halfway through that thing, is she? And how much longer is this ‘story’ going to take?”

Snape reached his hand toward the book, and the assembled Weasleys realized the danger only a fraction of a second too late. As if in slow motion, their mouths opened in warning, only to cry out in horror instead as Snape’s long fingers brushed the page. He had just time to look up in anger and bewilderment, before the stasis spell caught him fast, and he, too, was lost.

 

* * * * *

 

_Helena knew that it was wrong, very wrong. Yet she felt unable to move, hypnotized, as she peered through the gap in the bunk curtain at the unexpected view of Captain Benedict Brock. His lean back and surprisingly broad shoulders were turned towards her, and when he dipped forward to wet a cloth in the basin of water on the table, his muscles flexed and stretched in a way that made Helena’s breath come a little faster._

_She told herself it was simply the fear of being caught that made her heart beat so, and that she ought to cough, or sneeze, or otherwise bring attention to her presence. But she remained silent, and her innocent eyes traced the line from Captain Brock’s shoulder to his narrow hips, where his hands had just begun to lower his leather breeches. She had thought that garment fitted him closely enough to leave little to her imagination; how wrong the next moment would prove her! For the captain, clearly assuming himself alone, quickly divested himself of this one remaining item of clothing, and stood before her clad only in the rapidly cooling evening air._

_Helena wanted to look away, but her curiosity drove her instead to gaze and gaze, taking in the trim curve of buttocks, the downy, dark hairs that graced the elegant legs. Her heart beat faster still, and she was seized with an unfamiliar feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach. Then, when the captain turned slightly, and placed one foot upon the banquette to better wash his lower limb, Helena saw that uniquely masculine portion of his anatomy, and her little gasp of surprise was not quiet enough to escape Brock’s notice. His hawkish countenance flew upward, to the narrow opening in the curtain, and for a long moment neither of them moved._

_Then he raised one raven eyebrow in a display of amused disdain that sent Helena’s heart plummeting as quickly as it had just ascended._

_“Enjoying the show, Miss Whitfield? Perhaps we should have waited for your governess to recover from the ague after all, before embarking.” The captain continued to lave his leg with the scrap of rough cloth, and Helena found her eyes drawn down before she could stop them. Gasping again, and squeezing her long-lashed lids tight against this improper scene, she affected the attitude of shocked sensibilities she should have been displaying all along._

_“Captain Brock, kindly remove yourself from this cabin at once!” she exclaimed, and waited for his reply. When none came, she ventured a peek with one half-lidded eye, and found him still standing there, calmly continuing his ablutions as though there were not a young lady present._

_“Miss Whitfield, perhaps I should familiarize you with some of the niceties of shipboard etiquette,” Brock said conversationally, wringing out his cloth over the basin. “As the captain, I issue the orders, and others follow them. Not, madam, the other way ‘round.” He began on the other leg, which Helena frankly found something of a relief, as her view of the baffling and frightening – yet strangely compelling and exciting – organ was now obscured. “Furthermore,” the captain continued, “this is my cabin. You are here only on sufferance, because I felt compelled to repay a debt of conscience to my brother by acquiescing to my ne’er-do-well nephew’s request to transport you. A decision for which I have already begun to harbor deep regret. I see no reason to compound this by forgoing my customary bath simply because you chose to exercise your idleness by slumbering away the afternoon.”_

_“Ne’er-do-well? How dare you say such a thing about my fiancé?” For a moment, Helena forgot the issue of her combatant’s nudity, and snatched the curtain wider as if to exit the berth; a little shriek of horror punctuated her speedy return to safety, and her discomfort only grew as she heard the captain, for the first time in their short acquaintance, begin to laugh heartily._

_“I dare say such a thing,” he finally went on between chuckles, “because Hugo Brock is a wastrel and a fool, constantly scheming to no good purpose. What’s more, he schemes badly, which is inexcusable. It is only a matter of time before the general public come to regard him as the disgrace he is.” All this was said without malice, in a blithely straightforward manner, and Helena felt quite bewildered as to how best to respond. The chime of the ship’s bell, sounding the next half-hour, gave her a moment to decide. Righteous indignation, she thought, was probably best._

_“You have the nerve, sir, to say such a thing? You, who are little better than a pirate? You can call yourself a privateer, which is all good and well, but it comes down to the same thing.” She realized, suddenly, the potential danger of her approach while she was actually a passenger on this privateer’s ship; however, bolstered by the sense of security the now tightly-closed berth curtains afforded, she pressed on heedlessly. “You, who stand there refusing to honor a maiden’s request for modesty and decency?” She heard his snort quite clearly, even through the sound-muffling drapery._

_“Modesty, Miss Whitfield? Curious that you should raise that particular flag.” His tone had changed, softened yet become somehow dangerous at the same time. Helena felt a shiver down her spine and limbs, and that curious twisting in her stomach again; she realized he was standing quite close to the curtain now, probably close enough to reach out a hand and touch her, and for some reason this thought started her heart racing again._

_“I… I don’t know what you mean,” she said sternly, but not convincingly._

_“Don’t you?” His voice came closer still, and sounded silkier, somehow, low and entrancing. “And have you ever watched your Hugo at his bath, when you thought he couldn’t see you? No, you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have had the opportunity. You’ve probably never even been properly alone with him, or with any other suitor.”_

_“Of course I haven’t,” Helena said, almost in a whisper. She thought he must be able to hear the wild beating of her heart by now, so loudly did it echo in her own ears._

_“Of course you haven’t,” he repeated. “And when at last you had your opportunity, though not with Hugo, and your curiosity got the better of you, did you like what you saw, Miss Whitfield? Did your heart beat a little faster?”_

_He knew. Somehow, he knew, and Helena suddenly felt trapped, cornered, and yet filled with a heat she had never known. The word tumbled from her lips before she could stop it._

_“Yes.”_

_The curtain swished open dramatically, and the captain, clad in his breeches once more, clasped Helena’s arms and swept her off the bunk, crushing her to his bare chest before she could find her feet._

_“Does my lackwit nephew make you blush so, Miss Whitfield?” he purred silkily, a bitter cruelty lending his aquiline features a frightening cast that scarcely matched his voice. “Make your knees tremble so you can hardly stand? Or,” and he stooped to demonstrate, “take your very breath away with a single kiss?”_

_As his lips brushed hers with unexpected gentleness, Helena felt her knees give way completely, until her only support was in the captain’s firm grasp about her waist. The touch of his mouth on hers took her breath away indeed, and left her atremble with feelings for which she had no name._

_Pulling back and releasing her at last, the captain gave her a dark look she couldn’t fathom, and the bitterness she had marked earlier came to the fore._

_“I wonder if you do feel all that for Hugo,” Brock continued, almost as though nothing had just happened between them. “And if not, Miss Whitfield, you must consider why not, and whether he feels those things for you. And if not, then, for what reason is he marrying you? For what reason has he arranged this voyage to have you meet and be wedded to him in Gibraltar, so far from your home, at such short notice?”_

_“Hugo is romantic!” she flared back, a single tear threatening to fall from her eye. “He says he wants our marriage to happen in the place where our life together will begin. And unlike some, he is a perfect gentleman. Our love is true, and unsullied, and our –“ she swallowed hard, and made herself say the heretofore untasted word, “—our passion will be all the sweeter for being born of innocence, and, and… pure devotion!”_

_This time, Captain Brock’s laugh filled the cabin at once, and filled Helena with ire all over again. Before she could think, she reached out her soft, pampered hand, and slapped his mocking face. The dainty blow made a pitifully thin sound, and quelled his laughter not at all. Without warning, he clutched her again, his deceptively slim fingers proving stronger than her attempt to resist. Still laughing, he caught her lips beneath his in another kiss, but one with no tender regard. Bruising, punishing, he held her neck firmly and took his pleasure from her fresh, young mouth, nipping at her lips until she yielded to the suggestive thrusts of his supple tongue._

_Helena did not know what sea change occurred, but knew only that sometime after those first few, mad moments, the captain ceased laughing through his kiss, and she stopped resisting, and the heave and pitch under her feet had nothing to do with the ocean’s sway and everything to do with the man who held her so inexorably in his grasp. Her hands, weary of their efforts at beating on his chest, crept shyly up to his shoulders; her lips opened beneath his like a spring rose, as the heat she had felt earlier returned to her stomach and the mysterious regions below._

_But the moment Brock realized she had begun to return his attentions, he pushed her away yet again, with a smirk that turned the delicious warmth to bile._

_“I compliment you, Miss Whitfield, on your pure devotion,” he spat, and snatching up his linen shirt and broadcloth waistcoat from the banquette, turned and walked out of the cabin, leaving Helena gasping for breath and longing for the light of reason to return. As the door slammed shut, the bell sounded the next hour, and the sun dropped below the horizon._

“Gods, that was fun,” Hermione said aloud, leaning back against the bunk and giggling. The noise of the door slamming back open took her completely by surprise, but her scream came only when Captain Benedict Brock made an unscheduled and out-of-character reappearance.

He waited, flinching, for her scream to die down, then scowled about the cabin with an expression she found all too familiar. When he spoke, she placed it at once, and didn’t know whether she felt faint with relief or with mortification.

“Professor Granger,” Snape said, with lethal frostiness, “what the bloody  _fuck_  is going on?”


	5. Shiver Me Timbers

“You mean to tell me,” Snape growled, clearly at his wit’s end, “that there is nothing else to read on this damned figment of your diseased imagination than the collected works of John Donne, volume one of a four-volume eighteenth-century poetry anthology, and a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice?”

His voice having risen near the end, he was now nearly shouting, and Hermione fancied she could actually see a tiny vein at his temple begin to throb. She had seen it quite a bit over the past week, and now felt she was becoming something of a connoisseur of Snape’s many moods (all variations on a theme of grumpiness) and their physical manifestations.

“That’s right,” she replied grimly, feeling far from happy with this situation herself.

“But Pride and Prejudice won’t even be published for  _another twenty-three years!_ ”

“I didn’t actually write it into the book, I just imagined it here! And besides, she wrote an earlier version in 1796!” Hermione countered. They were both standing, now, facing off over the motionless helm.

Snape glared and lowered his voice to its most ominous pitch. “ _This_  is  _1790_.” His eyes dared her to come back against such logic. Never one to refuse a dare, Hermione pulled herself up to her full height – which was still a full head shorter than Snape – and returned his gaze coldly.

“You could always read my copy of the novel itself, if you’re spoiling for something to do,” she intoned haughtily, with a sniff, before turning and walking back towards the cabin. The ship’s bells clanged twice, loudly, and she had just time to regret stalking off before she found herself yanked unceremoniously back toward the helm.

 _And in a lovely new frock, too_ , she noted as the tale resumed.

_”As I have told you repeatedly, Miss Whitfield, I am the captain of this vessel, and will brook no disobedience. Cease questioning me on this matter, for I will tell you no more.”_

_Benedict Brock grasped the helm firmly, each lean hand gripping a prong; he seemed almost to caress the wheel, with such familiar ease did he make those fine adjustments needed to maintain their course._

_Helena looked about at those crew members nearby; a pair of swabbies, true to their title, were mopping the salt and grime from the deck, while half a dozen other sailors engaged in various other routine tasks. By the mainmast, the pretty cabin boy was polishing the brass ship’s bell assiduously, his silvery-fair hair ruffled by the coming breeze. Three intrepid lads were working high in the riggings above, moving with less caution than Helena thought advisable. It was too many, and some were bound to overhear, but she knew she must speak her mind now or forever lose her courage._

_“Sir, I implore you. You say that Hugo is unworthy, and yet you offer no proofs, no explanations for what you say. I would not believe such things about my beloved, yet…” Helena’s long eyelashes fluttered against her blushing cheek, trying to stem the tide of tears that threatened once again. ”Yet my predicament here would be dire indeed, if half what you seem to imply were true, and I have none other here to whom I may turn. Please… Captain Brock, please set my mind and heart at ease.”_

_Brock stared straight ahead for a moment, as if considering her request, then allowed his eyes to fall on Helena’s face for the briefest of glimpses. He looked away before he could meet her eyes and set about lashing the helm in place._

_“Perhaps you would prefer to discuss this in a less public forum, Miss Whitfield. I know I would. Will you accompany me inside?” He said it casually, but Helena heard the edge in his voice; the same edge was in her own as she spoke._

_“You know I will not.” Her blush deepened, and Brock gave a sigh of exasperation._

_“Where, then? The lifeboat? You’re behaving like a silly little –“_

_A piercing scream tore their attention away from one another, and Brock pulled Helena sharply to one side just in time to keep her from being struck by a falling object. Time seemed to slow down, and the pounding of her heart filled her ears like the ocean’s roar, as his strong hands kept their grasp around her waist. The object hit with a thud that Helena scarcely heard: a man’s shoe, she noticed in her shock, and then finally thought to look upward as time caught back up with her and the tumult around her began to register._

_Sailors were flinging themselves out of hatches and scrambling to the deck, all calling out questions and concern in their rough voices. In the rigging, one of the hands had slipped, his shoe evidently loosening unexpectedly, and had been saved only by the kindness of fate. His other foot had become fouled in a line, usually a death knell to a sailor but in this case a godsend; the tangled line had checked his fall, and left him dangling helplessly by one ankle._

_“Bentley, see to Miss Whitfield’s safety,” Brock called, handing her off to his quartermaster. Bentley, a kind, if gruff, old salt, offered his arm gallantly and led a thankful Helena to one side of the fray. Brock, meanwhile, had shucked his shoes, stockings, and the black frock coat he had worn today in lieu of his normal waistcoat, and was now climbing into the rigging with an agility few of the younger crew members possessed. Like these lads, Helena watched in astonishment and growing admiration as the daring captain made his way to the web of lines near the top of the fore top sail, where the fallen hand’s two colleagues were attempting to dangle a rope to their crewmate. Without further ado, Brock took up the rope himself, knotting it firmly at one end, and then securing the other end to the spar. He held a second coil of line over his arm as he gripped his own rope and made his way down it without a pause, nimble as an acrobat; then he held himself there with his feet and one hand while he secured the free rope around the waist of his hanging subordinate. And then he was back up the rope, as quick as a cat, and the three men together were able to pull the unfortunate fourth up to the relative safety of the spar. From there, they began the awkward, halting descent with their human burden._

_Helena felt nearly faint with relief as she saw the captain safely back on the deck at last, half-carrying the sailor who had fallen. The lad was shaken, bruised from the buffeting he had taken against the sail, and his ankle evidently broken; but he was safe, and would no doubt recover and go on to further feats of derring-do. It came to light, as murmured through the crowd, that the boy had been attempting, on a dare, to stand upright on the topgallant spar; he was known for taking such risks, but had never reaped such a consequence before._

_“If anyone else cares to try Plimpton’s trick, do your worst but look no more to me. I will rescue no more dunderheads on this ship,” Brock said to his assembled crew once he had set the boy down. “And as for Plimpton, broken ankle or no, tomorrow he’ll have to answer for his own actions.” The steel in the captain’s voice was audible to the last crew member, although he spoke in a tone of such cold quiet that Helena wondered at their response. To a man, they shuffled and edged about nervously, a few even loosening collars that were not there, as though in a sweat. Once dismissed, they abandoned the deck like so many schoolboys after the bell, almost running one another over in their haste to depart._

_Reading Helena’s puzzled expression, Bentley enlightened her. “Lashes, Miss. The boy will take ten lashes upon the morrow.”_

_“But… but that’s barbaric,” cried Helena._

_“Better than death, Miss,” replied the quartermaster, bowing politely and taking his leave as the captain approached with his boots and coat in hand._

_“You can’t really mean to flog that boy,” Helena insisted to Brock, whose grim expression should have been warning enough._

_“Miss Whitfield,” he growled, “you will cease questioning my orders, or face a flogging yourself upon the morn.” As she opened her mouth to protest, he stopped her with a sharp gesture. “Enough. You shall come with me and help me tend to these, and in return I shall tell you about your fiancé.” And with those curt words, he turned and marched off in the direction of the cabin, seeming confident that she would follow. Having no other choice if she wished to be enlightened regarding Hugo, Helena reluctantly did so._

_“Captain, help you tend to what?” she asked, as she paused at the cabin door, trying to let her eyes adjust to the dimness within. By way of explanation, Brock held his palms out for her inspection; they had been rubbed nearly raw in places, burnt by the lines as he climbed, and Helena saw there were similar angry, red marks along the inner arches of his bare feet. Her compassionate nature asserting itself, she exclaimed with dismay, and set about finding fresh water and clean rags._

_“What can you have been thinking?” she muttered, half to herself, forgetting her manners as she focused her attention on the task at hand._

_“I used to do it all the time when I was first at sea,” replied Brock, startling her. “But my hands and feet are no longer as tough as they were then,” he admitted. “Plimpton’s greatest mistake was in trying to work with shoes on at all. Bare feet are best for climbing.” Watching her a moment as she gently daubed at the shallow wounds, he found himself drawn in by tiny details he had seen but ignored before: the way her hair, refusing to be contained by the fashionable bandeau wound around it, crept forth in little chestnut ringlets to caress her neck and ruffle about her face; the way her cheeks flushed pink at the oddest moments, as they were flushed right then; how the wisps of lace that preserved the modesty of her décolletage rose and fell softly, drawing attention rather than casting it away, almost inviting a man to wonder at what lay beneath…_

_“Finished,” Helena said, wringing out the rag and replacing it in the basin. “And the feet?” she queried, trying to strike an air of practicality to mask the turmoil inside her. This close to the captain, she was suddenly keenly aware of how powerful his presence was, the scent of leather, rum, and spices that surrounded him, and the occasion of this wash basin’s last use. As if to illustrate her thought, Brock raised one limb and rested his foot on the seat closest to where Helena stood._

_“I can do that, thank you,” he snarled, taking the rag from her hands rather brusquely. “I suppose you want to hear, now, all about your precious Hugo?”_

_Although Hugo was very, very far from her mind at that moment, Helena merely nodded her assent, not trusting herself to speak._

_“Very well, then. You shan’t like it. You know, of course, that Hugo’s father, my elder brother Lord Henry, was the heir to my family’s estate. Hugo stands to inherit a goodly fortune and the family home upon my brother’s death. What you do not seem to know,” he continued, “is that my brother has cut Hugo off, and refused to make good Hugo’s very substantial debts and other obligations, all in a belated effort to teach the blithering young fool some responsibility before he is put in a position to run through the estate and lead the family into disgrace and ruin.”_

_“Debts? What do you mean? What sort of debts could he have?” asked Helena indignantly. “Other than the odd visit to the tailor, and the livery man’s bill, what expenses would Hugo incur? He lives the life of any modest young gentleman.”_

_“In the country,” Brock emphasized. “But in the city, his habits are rather different.” Seeing that she had no notion of his meaning, he rolled his eyes, but went on. “He keeps a costly flat, entertains lavishly there and at several establishments nearby with some regularity. He wagers religiously, and loses with a frequency that is unsurpassed.”_

_“This is preposterous. That simply isn’t Hugo at all,” stated Helena firmly._

_“It is,” stated Brock just as adamantly. “Furthermore, he owes money to nearly every tailor, cobbler, and other apparel merchant in London, and his butcher’s bills had become so astronomical before he left, it is said among the knowledgeable that Hugo Brock will never be able to eat meat in the city again.”_

_“Now you’re just being flippant, and I still don’t believe a word of this.”_

_“Yet you stay to listen,” he pointed out snidely. “There must be something in it.”_

_“There is nothing in it.”_

_“There is more. I suppose I should finish. Hugo had hoped to marry last year, to a young woman whose name I will not say. They had become secretly betrothed, but her father discovered their intention and refused to let them be wed. On expectation of the wedding, Hugo had become even more profligate than usual; the lady in question was in possession of a goodly fortune, and he was confident his financial woes were at an end. Alas, this was not to be, and after she broke with him, Hugo left for Kent to stay with friends because he could no longer get credit in the city for so much as a loaf of bread._

_“In Kent, of course, he encountered the answer to his dilemma. Young, biddable, hopelessly naïve, and attractive enough that none would suspect his interest to be anything less than justified. A gullible, permissive mother and guardian uncle were an added attraction.” Having finished with washing his injuries, Brock strode to the other side of the narrow cabin, and opened the top drawer of the carven teak map chest. From this drawer, he withdrew a thin sheaf of papers, through which he browsed as he spoke. “In fact, his interest was purely mercenary, Miss Whitfield. And I have the correspondence to prove it.” With an unintentional flourish, he thrust a selected few of the papers toward her, and then sat down while she read through them with growing anxiety and disquiet._

_In these pages, letters from Hugo to his uncle, her supposed fiancé detailed their meeting; with horror, Helena read his description of her, in his own hand, as ‘a rather dull pudding of a girl, pretty enough I suppose, but certainly more useful to me than she is ornamental.’ She read of her family and friends, similarly disparaged, and of her beautiful home, dismissed as a provincial hovel. When she came to the final missive, she gasped with distress to read of Hugo’s plan: to lure her to Gibraltar alone, on the pretext of intended marriage, then allow her to be captured en route and ransomed back to her family by a pirate named Marius Goldenhook with whom he, Hugo, would secretly share the reward upon her eventual return. Hugo had even arranged for the mild poisoning of dear Margaret, whose mysterious illness while at the inn in Dover had prevented her at the last moment from accompanying Helena on this journey as chaperone._

_“I’m sorry,” Brock said simply, resting his head in his hands as Helena let the letters slip through her fingers and fall to the floor. Looking up with alarm, he called out and tried unsuccessfully to stop her descent, as she followed the letters down to the floor in a swoon._

“Ouch,” said Hermione, sitting up with a wince. “That didn’t feel very good at all.”

“Perhaps you’d rather have a lovely set of rope burns,” offered Snape, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You weren’t supposed to be a real person, you know. If you hadn’t touched the book, you wouldn’t be—“

“It was an accident!” Snape shouted, not for the first time.

“And here we all thought you were infallible. Oh, the irony. The bitter, bitter irony,” Hermione retorted cattily.

“Bitch.”

“Thank you ever so much for that. Will you at least help me up? These skirts are such a bloody nuisance.” Hermione raised her hand toward Snape, who eyed it as though it were a dung bomb.

After a moment he looked pointedly away, leaving Hermione to pick herself up off the floor and seat herself opposite him.

“Arsehole.”

“Yes.”

“You know who you are. How nice for you,” she said with a false grin. “What are you reading, anyway?”

“The book. I wanted to see what comes next, but I haven’t found the place yet. Here, you’re to blame for this abomination, you find it.” Snape thrust the book, which Hermione had written into one of the many completely blank books to be found about the place, towards her. She found the relevant spot almost immediately, then grimaced and closed the cover, losing the place.

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t think you really want to know.”

“What do you mean? Don’t be stupid, give me the bloody book, Granger. What happens next?”

Hermione grimaced again, then cocked her head to one side, contemplating Snape. “Are you really that thick? Do you honestly not know what happens next?”

“What are you talking about?”

She looked at him with something verging on pity. “Snape… it’s a romance novel. The young, innocent heroine has just fainted dramatically in the darkly brooding captain’s cabin, after his startling revelation that her fiancé is an utter cad. With supporting documentation, no less.”

“And?”

“And? Oh, please. Even if you’ve never read one, you can see events unfolding, can’t you?”

With furrowed brow, Snape continued glaring at her in what he would never admit was bewilderment, until…

“You mean…”

“Yes?” she encouraged him.

“They… that is to say,  _we_ …”

“By George, I think he’s got it.”

“But – but –“ Snape struggled with several thoughts, finally deciding to ignore the elephant on the table for awhile. “Why would Helena sleep with Brock? They despise one another!”

“No they don’t. I’m in love with you. Helena, I mean,” she clarified hastily. “Helena is in love with Brock. And he with her, of course. I mean, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Hermione licked her lips nervously, and felt the telltale warmth of a blush rising to her cheeks. Fortunately, Snape was paying no attention.

“You can’t fall in love with me! I’m supposed to be the villain! Don’t you see my black clothes? The villain always wears the black clothes! I can’t be the bloody hero!”

“It’s called an anti-hero, Snape, and they’re very popular among the ladies, these days. You should know the type – the bad boy who turns out to be good, deep down inside? You’re practically the poster-boy! And besides,” Hermione pointed out, “Your shirt is white. Only your coat and breeches are black, and you usually don’t even wear those, you wear the brown leather breeches and forego the coat altogether.”

“Which feels indecent, might I just say.”

“You may. It won’t change a thing, of course. And neither will ignoring the larger issue, since you insisted on knowing what was coming up next.” Hermione plucked idly at the sprigged cotton of her dress, making minute adjustments to the lace modesty piece at her neckline.

“Do we actually –“

“No,” she reassured him. “Not this time. Helena’s supposed to be very sheltered and innocent, of course, and Brock doesn’t want to take advantage. Well, he does  _want_  to, terribly, of course… but he’s too good, deep down inside, to take advantage right away. Later on, nature will take its course. But at this point they’ve only shared two kisses, which actually occurred just before you arrived.”

Hermione looked at Snape, who was studiously avoiding eye contact and using one thumbnail to meticulously clean under the nails of the other hand. Having spent a great deal of time with teenaged boys, and being currently employed as a teacher of same, Hermione knew instantly that Snape was hiding something; he might as well have been wearing a large placard that read, “Ask me what I’m not telling you.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded, and was rewarded with a guilty flinch and sidewise glance in her direction.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Snape lied. Having finished his attentions to one hand, he switched thumbs and began on the other, hunching down a bit further in his seat.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She thought back along the chain of conversation, to that point at which Snape’s suspicious behavior had begun, and her eyes widened when she realized the reason.

“You were here already when the kisses happened, weren’t you? You bastard! You went on letting me think you came in after the scene, when all the time you were in there during the snogging.” His utter silence confirmed her suspicion, and her righteous ire warred with her curiosity as to why he had hidden this from her. “Should I even ask why you didn’t tell me?”

“Knowledge is power, Miss Granger.”

He used her old, familiar title from mere habit, but it took Hermione straight back to her days in his classroom. She almost felt like raising her hand, for old times’ sake, but she knew he would never call on her if she did.

“In the right hands,” she agreed.

“Perhaps,” Snape mused, “I should ask you some questions, instead.”

“Such as?” Hermione replied politely. He was still using the classroom voice, and she felt oddly compelled to sit up and mind him. Or, in the alternative, pounce upon him like a leopard in heat.

“Such as… the curious phenomenon of my personal appearance. It has not escaped my attention that, whereas you seem to have made some small alterations in your own appearance as Helena, and none of the sailors except the cabin boy resembles anyone we know – kudos for the cabin boy, incidentally, Draco will be  _so_  pleased to find he’s cast as the ship’s fancy-boy – my visage and physique as Brock are in no way different from the way they appear in real life. I see _myself_  in the mirror here, with no changes whatsoever.”

“Is that so?” It was Hermione’s turn to study her nails; her blush, however, gave her away with no need for a placard.

“Indeed,” affirmed Snape. “Down to the very scars on my back, I have observed. And clearly, I haven’t been the only one observing. And imagining. And casting me in the role of Brock.” He was leaning forward now, encroaching on her half of the small table. Hermione leaned back in her seat to counter his move, and Snape smirked at her again.

“So… how long is it until this next scene, again?”

She didn’t respond. Her nails were a frightful mess, really, she didn’t know how it could have escaped her notice.

“Hmmmm… as I said. Knowledge is power. Suppose you empower us both, by revealing where the next scene is to take place, so we can hie ourselves hence?” Snape’s tone was still silky, but nearly gleeful now.

He was deliberately attempting to infuriate her, Hermione knew, and she was loath to rise to the bait. Annoyance could be power, too.

“The bunk. In roughly two hours, so listen to the bells.” She rose abruptly and headed for the door. “You can hie yourself wherever you like until then,” she called as she left the cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the vessel is loosely modeled on an 18th-century brig style (double-masted, square rigged), I have taken many a liberty to better serve my purposes (e.g., using a wheel helm instead of the more probable rudder, and so forth). Neither I nor the Hermione of this tale claim to be an expert on things nautical, so any nitpicking will be taken gracefully but probably largely ignored!
> 
> For an example of the sort of ship I had in mind, try www.ladywashington.org (very similar ship although the sail plan is slightly different as are the cabin arrangements). This is exactly the feel I was going for, and if you click on "sail plan" you can get an idea of where the young daredevil Plimpton was when he took his dive. Enjoy!


	6. Scylla and Charybdis

_The tossing of the ship woke Helena, rolling her against an unfamiliar obstacle in the bunk. Before she could place it, she felt warm arms encircling her, pulling her closer, and heard sleepy murmurs of reassurance. Still groggy, she nestled in gratefully, glad for the warmth, and for the absence of the pounding headache that had awakened her at least once earlier in the night. The only pounding now was that of the waves, throwing the ship about like a plaything._

_“Is it a storm?” she whispered, still half asleep. “Can the ship stay afloat if the waves are so high?”_

_“Shhhh,” the low, rumbling voice soothed her. “It’s nothing, just the ocean. Does your head still hurt?”_

_“No, not really…” she yawned, and felt the baritone chuckle as she heard it, curled as she was with her back against the captain’s chest. A long, gentle hand brushed against her hair, smoothing it away from her temple and tucking it tenderly behind her ear; it was the last thing she remembered before falling soundly asleep once more._

“Gods, the treacle. I can feel my teeth rotting with each passing moment,” exclaimed Snape, sitting up in the bunk.

“You’re just now feeling that? Here in the book?” Hermione sat up, too, and shook her hair free of her shoulders. The wild mass hit Snape in the face when she whipped it backward, and he made a show of spluttering and pushing the hair away.

“The next time I sleep with you, you’re wearing a hat,” he said firmly, prompting a giggle from Hermione.

“No, I won’t be. In no scene of the book do I sleep in a hat.”

A sudden awkwardness settled between them, and having already done as much nail-cleaning as they could reasonably be expected to do in one day, they were forced to resort to throat-clearing and discreet little coughs.

“Well… I suppose we should probably get some real sleep before the next scene,” suggested Hermione once the throat-clearing and coughing had ended.

“Yes. Although strictly speaking, it really isn’t necessary here, any more than eating is, or any other physical need you might imagine yourself having,” Snape replied pedantically. “It’s all just a construct, a habit your mind has developed, not unlike the so-called ‘phantom limb’ experienced when an arm or leg cannot be regenerated for some reason.”

“Snape.” Hermione had already laid her head on the pillow again.

“Yes?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.”

“Snape.”

“What is it this time?”

“On some  _other_  bunk.”

“Ah.”

 

* * * * * 

_Helena woke in the early morning, and lay silently with her eyes closed for a long moment, trying to recall the events of the night before. Her mind brushed past the letters, and briefly contemplated how she would ever be able to speak to the captain again without dying of mortification. Perhaps she could pretend to have forgotten her sleepy nighttime ramblings?_

_The salt on her lips piqued her thirst, and she risked raising one eyelid just a tiny fraction to see if the coast was clear. Past the narrow vista of wrinkled white muslin, the smell faintly musty so near her nose, past the slightly threadbare edge of the red velvet curtain that separated the small alcove from the cabin proper, she had a partial view of the captain's table, its dark teak looking almost black in the faint, dreary morning light. Above the table, the paneled wall was broken by two portholes; the gray light of dawn, tinged with red, was further filtered by the thin sheen of condensation that covered the thick glass._

_Helena could hear the watery sounds of the voyage, the ocean sounding as suspiciously calm as it felt. When, she wondered, had she acquired a weather sense? Some part of her knew, in the way of animals before an earthquake, that the sea was too quiet, that something else was to come. The sudden foreboding caused the fine hairs on the back of her slender neck to prickle uncomfortably._

_Lifting her head the tiniest bit, she peered warily in the other direction. It caused a little strain on her neck, uncomfortable but not actually painful. Her hair, which someone had evidently released from its bandeau, suddenly slipped down, tumbling in chestnut ringlets over her face and obstructing her view. She lifted the offending tresses silently aside, and saw the cabin door, shut firm, and past it the curious chest of shallow drawers where the captain kept his charts and maps._

_The captain, Helena wondered, where was he? Just as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a warm presence behind her in the narrow berth, and startled at the fine but weathered hand that slipped over her waist, sending shivers of desire coursing downward to tug at her core. When she tried to roll out of the berth, his grip tightened, and he pulled her back against him snugly. After a moment, he pulled away, and gently rolled Helena onto her back. Brock lay propped upon one elbow, his white linen shirt open at the neck and forming a loose frame for his chest. Helena saw him as a study in contrasts in the thin light, the white linen and oddly fair skin against the crow-black brows and tresses. Helena looked up at him shyly, and he looked back at her as if searching her eyes for some meaning hidden to them both._

_Forgetting her intention to be mortified, Helena found herself raising one small hand and running it over the silky, raven’s-wing black hair at Brock’s temple, then smoothing a stray lock behind his ear._

_“Thank you,” she whispered, and was pained to see a frown mar Brock’s face._

_“Don’t thank me,” he said darkly, then lowered his mouth to hers._

_It began as a tender, searching kiss, each teaching the other what was best without a word needed. Helena found she had no sense of impropriety, though she knew full well what they were doing was wrong in every way she could think of; all she could feel was the rightness of the thing, their mouths moving together, the weight of Brock’s leg as it shifted slightly to rest on her thigh, the caress of his hand on her waist. She struggled to find her conscience and failed, her every thought filled only with the overwhelming presence of the man above her. Dizzy with lust, she boldly licked at his tongue when next it entered her mouth, and felt a surge of triumph when he groaned softly._

_Soon his hand left her waist and traveled upward, and only their kiss muffled Helena’s cry of surprised pleasure when he gently stroked at her breast, plucking at the peaked tip to send another thrill throughout her body. Even through the layers of fabric, the sensation was almost unbearable, and Helena writhed in delight, arching closer to him in her need for more contact. Brock’s lips left hers, only to dip into the delicate hollows of her throat and neck, nuzzling and tasting the soft skin she offered._

_Though he prided himself on his iron control, Brock felt himself coming rapidly undone by this slip of a girl, this goddess in the guise of a naif. He told himself he must stop, then pressed further anyway, shifting more of his weight over her slender body and letting his mouth drift downward, taking her ripe nipple gently between his teeth through the through the fine cotton of her dress, then blowing hot air through the fabric just to hear her make that delicious, inarticulate cry of pleasure._

_Brock felt his thickened manhood straining against his breeches, and allowed himself the luxury of letting it press against Helena’s thigh, letting his knee part her legs, which with unwitting art she wrapped around his calf, opening herself further to him. He hissed with the effort to resist, as he sensed her warmth and need, waiting to welcome him. She would have no idea…_

_“Helena, do you know what you’re doing to me?” He whispered roughly, raising his head to hers again and nipping at her lips as he tried to keep from thrusting crudely against her._

_“Things I never wanted to do with Hugo,” she answered candidly, kissing him back and shyly letting her hand wander to his hip to tug him close again._

_Brock knew the girl was truly innocent, that without a mother’s words of wisdom to guide her, she surely knew nothing of what transpired between a man and a woman in bed; neither her mother, her uncle, nor her spinster governess, could possibly have warned her against this in so many words – the mother and uncle, because of impropriety, and the spinster, because she would lack the knowledge. Perhaps this awareness tempted him further than he might otherwise have dared; or, perhaps, he was an essentially good man who had simply been at sea for a very, very long time. Either way, his resistance was not equal to the temptation before him. When he felt Helena’s hand stroking his back, exploring the curve of his buttock, he moaned and fell to, flexing his hips into hers as he plundered her mouth in a breathless kiss. His hand, never idle, felt the delights of Helena’s breasts again, then strayed lower to mirror her own, slipping under her to press her nearer as his hips moved in a slow, mindless rhythm._

_Knowing that he could not, simply could not, take his pleasure with her, Brock feverishly reasoned that he might still initiate Helena into the joys of the flesh. Slowly, patiently, he worked his hand lower, and then just as slowly pulled and tugged upward at the flimsy material of her gown which, in keeping with the fashion of the day, was less substantial than many a nightdress had once been. To his delight, he found she followed the fashion in full, wearing nothing beneath her dress that might interfere with the soft drape of the fabric. She shivered when her thigh was exposed to the air, but settled under his patient hand, which stroked the tender skin it found with something akin to reverence._

_She was perfect, he began to think, and kissed her deeply as he explored her body ever more boldly. She was perfect, and had never known another man’s touch, he thought smugly, letting his fingers trace the edge of the mink-soft hairs at the meeting of her creamy thighs. Helena moaned, arching her back, as the unfamiliar sensations threatened to overtake her. Brock stroked, teased, and finally gave into the temptation to part her knees further with his, and cup her with his full hand. When he squeezed, allowing the heel of his hand to graze her most sensitive area, her eyes flew open, seeking his, questioning; her graceful hips moved of their own volition, and she whimpered softly with this strange, new need that now made itself known so urgently._

_Brock met her gaze with his own direct stare, pinning her down as firmly as any binding might. He let his hand match the tempo she set, achingly slow at first, then gaining speed as Helena’s body learned its own will. Brock kissed her again, and she returned his kisses a little frantically, seeking more and not knowing how to find it. When she dropped her head back again, he watched her, and found her glorious, her hair streaming over the pillow with the same abandon her body demonstrated. Her eyes closed, her breath coming now in little hitches and gasps, and Brock felt her readiness, and let his stroking fingers begin to delve just inside that paradise he so longed to attain._

_She was perfect, she had never known another man’s touch, and she never would, he thought suddenly, finally letting one envied finger achieve its nirvana and send her over the edge. She cried out once, then again, as wave after wave of shuddering bliss swept through her. And as she came down from her peak, she whispered his name, like a question, like an answer: “Benedict.”_

_He stole the name from her lips with his own, so greedy was he now to take everything of her that he could. ‘Mine, mine, mine,’ was all his mind could utter, and he listened to that single thought until the sound of the watch bell interrupted._

_Reluctantly, he sat up on the narrow bunk, gazing down at Helena, whose eyes fluttered open to meet his._

_“The watch is changing. It’s morning,” he said softly, his voice sliding like velvet over her pleasure-wracked body. “I think we’re in for some rough weather later. You should stay in the cabin until it’s past.” She merely smiled weakly and nodded her understanding, not yet able to find the words she needed for this new world she found herself in._

_He knelt over her briefly, sharing the barest of kisses, before he slid past her and out of the berth. Her hands, which she had raised to stroke his sides when they kissed, slid off him like water as he left the bunk. Like water, too, fell the tears that welled up once the door had closed behind the captain; for Helena knew that, whatever had just happened, she was irrevocably changed. And she wanted more. She wanted more of him, so fiercely that it scarcely mattered she knew little of how to accomplish whatever they had left to accomplish. That they would do so was a certainty in her mind, just as it was a certainty she would not be marrying Hugo. Of little else was Helena certain any more, however, and it was that, more than anything else, that brought the tears to her eyes as she sat up and clutched the bedclothes tightly to her chest. Indeed, how could she be sure of anything, now? Her mind was filled to the brim with Captain Benedict Brock, and she felt as though she had never known, would never want to know, anything else._

Hermione sat still in the bunk, listening for Snape’s return. When he finally did come back after some ten minutes’ absence, it was with a studied lack of concern. His real state of mind, however, was somewhat betrayed by his change in dishevelment; his shirttails, still out when he left as Brock, were now partly caught up in the waist of his breeches. Snape shifted a little uncomfortably after he sat down, looked as though he might be reaching down to adjust things, then seemed to think better of it when he realized Hermione was watching. He eyed her back with a knowing look that spoke volumes.

“Where did you go?” she asked, still swathed in the blanket and sheets; she realized she was using the fabric as a shield against him, and just as readily realized how silly that was. She should go on the offensive, it was her strength.

“Not far. The hold, actually. One should inspect one’s cargo, when one is captain.”

“Oh. So… wanking, then?”

“Professor Granger, please. I see no need for vulgarity,” Snape drawled, and it was not until she caught sight of his smirk that Hermione realized he was actually enjoying this interchange.

“A clever euphemism, then?” She cast the covers aside impatiently and slipped off the berth, straightening her dress as she moved to sit opposite him once again. “’Spanking the monkey’? Or the more esoteric derivation, ‘punishing the chimp’?

“People don’t say that,” he snorted contemptuously.

“You would be amazed.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Hermione made the mistake of meeting Snape’s eyes when she responded with a chuckle, and she felt herself transfixed for a moment, just as Helena had been. Same eyes, after all, she thought. Not for nothing had she created Brock in Snape’s image, and she was only surprised he had taken so long to notice and come to the logical conclusions.

“Well, I must point out, we all have our little –“

“While in the hold, the thought did strike me that –“

“Sorry, you go.”

“No, no. Ladies first.”

“Of course. Pearls before –“

“Just say what you were going to say, Granger,” Snape said with a meaningfully raised eyebrow. “I am feeling magnanimous at the moment, but there’s no guarantee it will last long.”

“Fine. I was going to say that we, all of us, have our little quirks. Certain recurrent interests, certain  _types_ , if you will. I mean, I certainly wouldn’t want you to read anything inappropriate into my inadvertently modeling Brock’s appearance on yours. It was really nothing personal, just a convenient physical archetype. I really hadn’t noticed the resemblance was so strong until you remarked on it.” Hermione was quite an accomplished poker player, having found that the ability to fake sincerity was valuable in a multitude of settings, and was therefore a skill worth cultivating and nurturing. Still, she was glad they were evidently incapable of performing magic in the world of the book, as she doubted her ability to fool an accomplished Legilimens about something this blatantly untrue. From the look he gave her now, however, she strongly suspected he did not require Legilimency to learn the truth in this instance.

“I see. It’s inadvertent, now, is it? So, what precisely  _do_  you expect me to read into it?” He smirked at her, and stretched his lean frame back in the seat, crossing his legs in front of him and folding his arms comfortably over his chest.

Electing to ignore his question, she reminded him that he had started to say something as well, and that she had interrupted him. Wouldn’t he like to say it now?

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, still looking at her with that irksome familiarity, as though he were taking liberties with his eyes. When he did speak, it was in a velvety smooth rumble that took its own liberties with Hermione’s libido.

“While I was in the hold just now,” he began, nodding a silent acknowledgement of his reason for being there, “I had occasion to consider our circumstances in a new light. Perhaps, as we are apparently stranded here for quite some time, and as our characters will be engaging periodically in acts that may render us both… fraught with tension… Perhaps, during this enforced acquaintanceship, we should agree to put our animosity aside and make the best of the situation between scenes.”

“Snape –“

“Severus, please.”

“ _Snape_ , you can’t be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.” Hermione drew herself up from the table and began pacing the width of the narrow space. “That is beyond inappropriate. You are unbelievable!”

“Hermione. Yes,” he insisted, at her glare, “I’m going to call you by your name, because I strongly suspect Brock and Helena will be having intercourse within a fortnight, and as far as I’m concerned that means  _I_  will be having sex with _you_. And while I may have my peculiarities, calling my sexual partners by their formal titles or last names is not one of them. Merlin’s hairy testicles, woman, I’m a human being, not an unfeeling monster.”

“This is just getting so surreal,” groaned Hermione, sitting down opposite Snape again and letting her head flop hopelessly down on her folded arms.

“But that is the underlying appeal of this, Hermione.  _It isn’t real._ ” Snape leaned closer, insinuating his voice into her ear, using his every power to persuade, rather than intimidate. Although it was not his usual tactic, he knew he was actually quite good at persuasion, and furthermore he knew that most women found his voice appealing; he thought this was the time to use it for all it was worth. “This is all in our heads, remember. Just a silly game, and you’ve already set the rules for most of it; we could agree on any rules we like for the parts you haven’t scripted, but the fact remains, it would still only be in our minds. Still just a game. Our bodies would still be located in the back room at the accursed Weasleys’ shop.”

“I plan to kill them, you know,” she interjected, her voice muffled somewhat as she had not raised her head.

“Shhh, I know, I know. Of course you do. I plan to help you. Shall we hex them painfully for a bit first?”

“Yes,” she agreed, nodding into her arms and sniffling pitifully, rather touched at his comforting words.

“There, you see? We have found some common ground already.”

“That’s different,” Hermione said, sitting up again at last. “You said yourself, you thought that Brock shagging Helena would be the same thing as… as you shagging me. Well, we can’t change that, but we can keep from making it worse. It may not be happening to our bodies, but it’s not as though our minds won’t still be with us when we  _are_  back in our bodies. It  _feels_  real, and if we do something not in character while we’re here, we’re going to remember it just as if we had done it out in the real world. I think. And we just can’t have that, can we?”

“Why not?” he countered. “People do it all the time. It’s what people do, Hermione.”

“People might, that doesn’t mean we have to, and stop calling me that!”

“It’s your name,” Snape said simply. “Try saying mine.”

“What?”

“Severus. Just try it.”

“Why would I want to do that?” she asked suspiciously. She knew very well, of course, why he wanted her to do that. It was one step down the path of temptation, and with each step that temptation grew harder to resist. And she was already sorely tempted; she really didn’t know if she could afford another step.

While she pondered this, Snape slid stealthily around the table, fetching up against Hermione’s side before she realized what he was about. He anchored her in place with a companionable hand about her shoulders before she could escape. She did not try as hard as she might to escape, of course; his warmth against her side was too delectable, and even his hand on her shoulder sent tingles dancing merrily through her veins.

“Just humor me,” he asked dryly. “Close your eyes, if you like.”

“And think of England?”

Still, ever the eager student, Hermione’s first response had been to close her eyes obediently. She felt foolish, until Snape purred his request into her ear, inciting a minor riot in her lap.

“Severus. Say it.”

With some reluctance, she finally capitulated. “Severus. There, are you happy?”

“Not just yet, actually. Say it again, please.”

She opened her eyes and frowned in his direction, only to find his face startlingly close to hers. “I would really rather not, thanks,” she murmured, looking away and attempting to slide out of the banquette. He held her shoulder a moment longer but, when she stiffened, released her and let her stand.

To his surprise, she stopped at the door, just touching the handle, and looked back at him over that same shoulder. Finally she turned the knob, turned away, but spoke once before exiting.

“I’ll give the whole thing some thought… Seve – ugh, no, just can’t. Sorry, Snape. But… I’ll give it some thought.”


	7. The Tintinnabulation of the Bells...

Oddly enough, it was Minerva McGonagall who first came down on the side of Fred and George Weasley’s argument in favor of keeping her two errant Professors  _in situ_  in back of the shop. Professor Flitwick, though he was clearly flustered by the entire situation, agreed with her, and bolstered her stance against the Weasleys  _père, mère, et d’autre fils_ , and Harry.

“But at least if we consulted St. Mungo’s, they could send a Healer, or even…” Molly Weasley really had no idea what help St. Mungo’s or the Ministry might provide, but ever since the twins and Ginny had come clean regarding the little dilemma in the back office, their mother had been firmly of the opinion that some sort of Authority should be Called In.

“While I appreciate your anxiety, Molly, please consider my position,” the Headmistress pleaded. “Aside from the issue of their safety, which does seem best secured by their remaining here undisturbed, there is the question of their reputations. If the general public were to learn that two Hogwarts teachers were not only foolish enough to get themselves caught in this bespelled book, but that the book were of a… well, a less than strictly proper nature…” McGonagall fanned herself with a spare copy of the book, while Flitwick took over the defense.

“Their safety does seem paramount, and I must say that this is very fine charm work, very fine indeed, yes. Except for the bits they left out, of course. But other than that, I should think the Professors are at considerably less risk here than they would be on any more conventional holiday.” The tiny Charms master peered up at the assembled Weasleys and others with a reassuring nod. Had they actually looked down at him, they might have felt reassured.

Harry frowned, staring at the immobilized couple with something like disgust on his handsome face. “But if Fred and George are right, and Snape is in there as the character he resembles most, this Bedford Brook –“

“Benedict Brock,” Ginny interjected helpfully.

“—person, then that means they’re… they’re going to have… I can’t say it.”

“Sex, Harry,” piped Ginny. “It’s called sex.”

“Ginny!”

“Mum, why bother to pretend we don’t all know this?”

“You just don’t say that in mixed company, Ginevra, and I really think it’s time you and the other young people…” Molly looked around, miserably, realizing yet again that nobody present was still young enough to send from the room. “…polished up your manners,” she finished lamely.

Nymphadora Tonks, who had been unusually silent throughout this confrontation, aimed a questioning glance at Ginny, with whom she had been discussing things earlier. At Ginny’s impatient head-toss, she finally spoke up. “Another thing you need to consider, Molly and the rest of you, is that Snape signed no contract to test that thing, and the twins and Ginny essentially allowed him to be caught by the book’s spell. They’re safe regarding Hermione, but as far as Snape goes, they could very well be sent to Azkaban for a good long time. Hard to use magic more improperly than this without venturing into the Dark Arts.”

Tonks might look flighty, and demonstrate all the grace of a flamingo on roller-skates, but her knowledge of criminal codes and precedents was rock-solid, and everyone present knew it. Her argument tipped the balance, and the onetime Order of the Phoenix agreed to let their enspelled fledglings remain hidden in stasis, to at least give the twins and Ginny a fighting chance of avoiding imprisonment. They decided, however, that a round-the-clock watch was vital to maintain secrecy and provide protection to Snape and Hermione, dubbed “the Happy Couple” by George in a moment of inspiration.

Ginny and Tonks volunteered to remain at the shop that very night with the Happy Couple, and had plenty of time while on watch to discuss their pet theory – shared, they suspected, with the Headmistress – that getting stuck in the book together was the best thing that could possibly have happened to Snape and Hermione. Best for Snape, because he would obviously find out that Hermione had been harboring a secret pash for him for years. And best for Hermione, because she would finally  _do_  something about said pash, whether she wanted to or not, instead of getting pissed and whining about having no sex life every time the girls went out together.

“Not that I’m a fan, mind you,” asserted Ginny. “But she certainly wouldn’t be the only girl who fancied Snape a bit. Seventh year there were quite a few. Mostly the sort who dressed in black all the time and thought it would be a terrific lifestyle choice to become a vampire, of course. But still, it’s hardly unheard of.”

“Snape isn’t as bad as he’d like everyone to think,” Tonks pointed out. “He does loathe us all, of course. But you know, I think he just needs to lighten up, have a little fun, and obviously take himself less seriously. A little swashbuckling’ll be good for him. A little swashbuckling, and a lot of shagging, he’ll be a new man when he comes out of that book.” She smiled fondly at static Snape, and then giggled at the face he had been stuck with when the spell caught him.

“I don’t know that Hermione would care for that,” remarked Ginny, sharing Tonks’ amusement at the Potions master’s fish-face of astonishment. “I think she sort of enjoys it when he’s horrible. And when I say ‘enjoys,’ I refer here to, ah…”

“Country matters?”

“Getting aroused to the point of insanity,” Ginny corrected her.

“Nice.” They each looked back at the Happy Couple, each smiling in contemplation of what might, in fact, be taking place in this budding relationship.

 

* * * * *

“Fuck you!”

Snape dodged as the empty rum bottle zinged past him, nearly clipping his ear. “Hah! You missed  _again_!” he gloated, smiling nastily as he sheltered behind the mainmast and peered over the crosstree at his assailant. “And you’re out of ammunition, aren’t you?”

“Only until it all reconstitutes itself after this next scene, bastard. Take it back, or you’ll regret it when I have things to throw again.” Hermione sidled towards Snape, one last empty inkwell hidden behind her back.

“I will not. Jane Austen was an overrated hack, and you’re a hack, too.” Snape risked a peek around the mast, and nearly lost an eye when the inkwell shot towards him with enough force to dent the wood. “Have you gone quite mad, woman? That almost hit me!”

“Good!” Hermione shouted. “It’s no more than you deserve.”

“For what, having superb taste? I thought you liked my taste,  _Hermione._ ”

“What ever gave you that idiotic notion,  _Professor Snape_?”

“Must I, yet again?” Snape murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “Oh, of course I must. Hermione, my darling, I have that notion because you wrote a romance novel and made  _me_  the hero. You’re just being stubborn to continue to deny it.”

“Benedict Brock isn’t you,” Hermione hissed. “For one thing, he’s  _nice_.”

“I am not nice, as you have reason to know. However, I am quite good, a distinction no doubt lost on most.”

“Well, he’s  _both_.”

“You sound like a silly schoolgirl again… are you really out of ammunition now? I would like to come out of hiding, the better to observe the lovely purplish mottling that occurs when you become truly enraged.”

Hermione’s growl of frustration indicated to Snape that she had, indeed, run out of projectiles; he sauntered out from his hiding place to join her on the deck, making a show of brushing imaginary dust from his breeches and waistcoat. He then ruined the effect by lying down and stretching out full-length on his back, folding his hands restfully over his stomach and closing his eyes, clearly daring her to take advantage of his vulnerability. He was fairly sure she wouldn’t, but that brief hint of uncertainty kept things interesting.

“Mmmmm…” he taunted her. “Do you know, I was just remembering the last meal I had before I came into the ginger fuckwits’ shop… have I told you this one?”

“Stop it,” she warned, to no avail.

“Oh, it was divine. Marcellus had outdone himself, really, it was even remarkable by the Serpent and Blade’s very high standards. The filet mignon was seasoned with only the lightest hand –“

“Shut. Up.”

“—because it was so tender and flavorful, the meat spoke for itself. So rare it was still translucent, and that first bite, with the extra flavor of the seared crust, just mouth-watering. Did I mention the sauce béarnaise?”

“I’m going inside.” Hermione swished past him, on her way to the galley, where they both knew nothing but hardtack, withered apples, and an endless supply of mulligatawny awaited her unhappy fictional hunger. As she departed, the watch bell rang in its brassy, inexorable way, reminding them both that time was still passing.

“Bon appetit,” Snape called after her. “ _Hermione_.”

He raised his head a moment later to make sure she was safely away, then lowered it to the deck again and stared thoughtfully at the featureless pale blue sky.

Tonight, according to Hermione’s calculations, was the night. 

 

* * * * *

 

_It had become a kind of madness with both of them. Brock saw that his crew had begun to suspect they were doing more than dining and discussing the voyage; Bentley had even tried to speak with him, beg him to reconsider the risks he was taking, but all for naught. Helena walked the deck by day, sometimes weeping softly as she re-read Hugo’s treacherous letters, and told herself she must not give in. Yet each evening found them together in his cabin, and each night she knew they ventured further towards their doom, though she still had so little notion what that doom might be. He left her, always, after a stolen hour or two, and disappeared until the morning; but the temptation to fall asleep in one another’s arms grew stronger, and Helena saw the effort it took him to part from her each night, knew the effort it took to let him go._

_And now, he had warned her of another doom they must face together: in the next week, as they approached Gibraltar, Marius Goldenhook’s ship would accost them, and the pirate would attempt to kidnap Helena as the plan dictated. But Benedict no longer intended to allow the abduction, he insisted. Lightly armed though his vessel was, he would withstand the so-called “Gentleman Pirate” with all his wherewithal. Far preferable, of course, was to avoid Goldenhook altogether, and to that effect some slight course alterations had been made to try to keep from passing too close to the corridor where the pirate was expecting him to sail._

_Distraught, Helena had pressed him again to tell her why he had succumbed to Hugo’s demands, why he could not simply turn back for England or another port of safety. But Brock had resisted, saying only that Gibraltar was the only option, and that they must arrive on schedule. Helena was filled with dread at the unspoken danger that seemed to lurk in the captain’s silence, but her natural tendency to caution had been subsumed, now, by the emotions and sensations that marked her nights with Benedict Brock. And night had already fallen on the ship again, leaving Helena in the lamplight, unable to see the waves that swelled steadily below. The ship’s night sounds, familiar to her now, surrounded her like a blanket: the creaking of the boards and the luffing of the sails; the hearty voices of the crew belowdecks, passing a bottle and singing with surprisingly pleasant voices, though the songs themselves were bawdier than Helena had ever known existed. Then the brass watch bell, tolling the half-hour as it always did, and reminding Helena that the time had come once more for her to decide between the comfortless sanity of solitude, and the sweet madness that awaited her in the captain’s berth._

_The previous evening had been, in some respects, the worst. From the standpoint of temptation, it offered an allure Helena had not even considered. Brock had been looking at maps, considering his course alterations, when Helena arrived. Rather than putting the maps away, he had called her to his side, shown her their location, shared his knowledge with her freely. She pointed out places she had already been along the English coast, which led to a discussion of France and the Channel crossing. Before she knew it, they were seated comfortably at the banquette, sharing slices from a slightly elderly apple and talking companionably about places they had never been but would like to travel one day. Helena had nodded off at the table, and came to only to find Brock tucking her into the berth; he left to walk the ship, spending the night away as he had each night but that of the occasion on which she had hit her head. He returned in the early morning hours to curl himself around her slumbering form for a few happy moments, then was up at the helm by the time she was truly awake. In place of baser excitement, Helena realized they were both recognizing a true affection for one another, a unique enjoyment in their time together. For this, she knew, she would willingly defy all convention, ignore the constraints of society, far more readily than she would for physical delight alone._

_Yet, at the same time, Helena’s heart was breaking to know how limited her time with her love – he was her love, it was useless to deny this now – must be. Even if she forswore Hugo and returned to England, Benedict had tendered no offers of marriage, had never spoken of his intentions after they arrived at Gibraltar. And Helena was already ruined, she knew, spoiled as surely as if she had run off with a stable boy. For here she was, with no chaperone, and no marriage awaiting her at the end of the voyage. Her reputation would be destroyed regardless; the particulars of her behavior with the captain mattered little. Except, of course, that it had come to matter more than anything else she had ever known in her short, circumscribed existence._

_Helena scarcely remembered how she arrived at the aft cabin, only that her mind would allow of no other option than to go there. And so, putting all thoughts of the future aside, she turned the handle and pushed open the door to her fate._


	8. The Tide Goes Out, The Tide Comes In.

_Brock did not need to look up from his reading to know it was Helena; any of the crew would have knocked. He held out a hand to her, and she joined him at the table, leaning into the crook of his arm and resting her head on his shoulder as if she had been doing so for years. She felt his lips brush the top of her hair, but he did this absently, still absorbed in his book; he turned the page, read the last few lines of the poem, and only then closed the volume and slid it away._

_“It was an elegy?” Helena asked him. “I’ve never read them, are they sad? His Holy Sonnets are so beautiful. There are several in a miscellany I brought with me.” She pulled the book towards her across the table, puzzled at Brock’s chuckle._

_“A few are sad. This is songs and sonnets as well. Ah, not the holy sort, though. Donne wasn’t always so pious, you know.”_

_Helena had opened the book at random, and seeing the poem she had lit upon, Brock read softly into her ear, “For love all love of other sights controls/ And makes one little room an everywhere.”_

_“That’s lovely,” she whispered, turning the pages to find another promising piece. “’An Elegy: To His Mistress Going to Bed.’ It doesn’t sound a likely topic for an elegy… let me see…”_

_Brock bit his tongue to keep from laughing as he watched Helena’s fair face turn first to blush, then to true rose red, until she came to the end of the poem. A thoughtful look came over her sweet features, and then she closed the book quickly and pushed it back in front of him as if it might open back up again and snap at her._

_“I now understand why Uncle Jeremy refuses to let me purchase the collected works,” she said quietly, looking down at the table as though Brock might not notice she was still blushing furiously. His laugh burst forth, startlingly loud in the small space, and Helena glanced up just in time to receive a quick buss on the lips._

_“I must watch you read another one,” he insisted, with a wicked grin she had never seen him wear before. With ease born of familiarity, he flicked past the pages to another elegy, and waited while Helena delved reluctantly into ‘The Perfume.’ Her initial wrinkled brow soon gave way to a smile, then a giggle, as the tale unfolded._

_She had just finished when Brock stifled a yawn, and she glanced at him in sudden realization that his eyes looked rather bleary. It dawned on her that, as he usually spent the night away from the cabin, he might be missing a good deal of sleep; she had assumed he had found other quarters, perhaps in the foc's'le with the rest of the crew, but was now suspicious that he was neglecting himself._

_“Benedict, I think I owe you an apology. I’ve turned you out of your comfortable home. You don’t look well, have you not rested?”_

_“Nonsense, I’m splendid. The crew sees to it I have the best hammock in their quarters. But thank you for your concern.” He avoided her scrutiny by sliding around the table and out of the seat, rising to cross to the map chest, where he stowed the slim volume of Donne in the topmost drawer._

_“A hammock? How dreadful! You must be exhausted.”_

_“It’s of no consequence.” Brock took the few strides back to the table, and pulled Helena up to stand before him. “We’ll be at Gibraltar in a few more days, and once our business there is concluded, I suppose I’ll have the liberty and privacy to sleep through the entire return journey if I desire it.”_

_As he spoke, he pulled her closer and, before she could respond to his brusque words, stooped to take her lips in a sudden kiss. Having grown used to his more subtle wooing, Helena was taken unawares by his sudden urgency, and had no time or inclination to dissemble; she returned his kiss with a fervor that surprised them both. Forgetting himself, Brock slid his hands down to her muslin-draped hips, cupping the firm globes of her buttocks in his hands and pulling her closer. When she rocked against him willingly, playing her tongue against his in a rhythm that echoed the pulse of their hips, Brock dragged his mouth away from hers and buried his face in her shoulder with a groan. In a series of licks and nips, he marked the tender skin of her neck, making her gasp with pleasure when he reached her ear and began to caress and explore it slowly with the tip of his tongue._

_Emboldened by her own passion, Helena began stroking Brock’s back, slipping her hands down and around to cup and fondle his posterior in a mirroring of his own actions. The feeling of pressure and need grew in Helena’s belly and thighs, until the sensation because almost painful. Some instinct prompted her to look down, then, at the barrier of clothing trapped between them. Fine muslin and worn leather chafed against one another, until Brock reached down to crumple her skirts up and out of the way, and Helena felt his hands slide over her bare skin to resume their former actions. She knew what would follow, knew that he would unfasten her bodice to free her bosom, but would remove none of her clothing. She knew, too, that his hands would soon be drawn, as if by magnetism, to the region between her thighs upon which her own attention was also necessarily focused. Then, by some magic, he would produce that response in her that she had come to crave so irrevocably over these days and nights. Always, he would hold something back, never stating his needs but clearly longing for something more. The mysterious bulge, so warm and hard against her thigh or midriff, would still be there when he took his leave of her._

_Tonight, she had determined to solve at least that much of the mystery to her own satisfaction. With that in mind, once Benedict had begun his amorous explorations beneath her skirts, Helena slid one hand between them and wrapped her fingers around him as far as the soft leather of his breeches would permit._

_Benedict’s hands stilled and he raised his head slowly to meet Helena’s shy but resolute gaze. For a long moment, they stared at one another, and Helena’s nerve nearly failed her. She began to pull her hand away, only to feel Brock’s fingers catch her wrist in an iron grip. His eyes still locked to hers, he pushed forward into her hand, shifting his hold to cover her fingers with his. With his wordless urging, she pressed harder, and allowed her hand to travel up and down with the motions of his hips until he finally released her to tug her skirts up again._

_After a blissful moment, though, he stopped and looked at her again, as though considering something. Slowly, as he might proceed with a wild creature he didn’t wish to frighten, he began unfastening his breeches, until they hung loosely on his hips except where the leather was tented and stretched. Little believing what he was doing, feeling almost as though he were dreaming, Brock freed his manhood from its confines and drew Helena’s hand back toward it. The first touch of her hand against his heated flesh was nearly unbearable, and Brock sighed deeply, grasping for self-control._

_Helena, for her part, was timid yet fascinated with this piece of a man that was so utterly unlike any piece of herself. Tentatively, she ran her fingers over the silky flesh, and thrilled to hear Benedict sigh again. He clenched his jaw in a show of self-control that she suddenly longed to break; wickedly, she gripped him as she had done while he was still betrousered, and let her hand slide slowly up and down until he groaned out her name and bent to ravish her lips again._

_In the next moment, Brock stayed Helena’s hand, shuddering with the effort to maintain himself._

_“Succubus,” he whispered against her mouth, winning a smile from her. “You little know how you tempt me, sweet one.”_

_“I begin to know,” she replied somewhat brazenly, “for I am also tempted beyond reason, though I know not toward what.”_

_“We must not,” Brock said softly, more to himself than to Helena. Then, putting the lie to his words, he began unfastening her bodice, dipping his hands greedily within to fondle the soft, pliant flesh. Impatient, he finally shoved the fabric down roughly, exposing one pert breast; he encircled it with his large hand, soothing the skin with his fingers as he lowered his head to suckle at the rosy peak. Helena arched her back, lifting her hands to lace her fingers through his black hair; lank with the salt air, it still felt soft against her skin, and she wound her hands into it ever more tightly as he freed the other breast and began tasting its delights._

_Even with no other stimulation, Helena was nearly overcome by his attentions thus far. Brock was not inclined to allow this, however; if it were to be an evening of new explorations, he intended to make a foray of his own. Brock let the fabric of the dress slip further down, and tugged Helena’s arms free of the sleeves; instead of stopping there, however, as he had on nights prior, he swiftly undid the rest of the restraining laces, buttons and hooks, and finally allowed himself the luxury of unfettered access to Helena’s firm, ripe form._

_Though Helena’s face might never be beautiful – her eyes were too large for true beauty, she knew, and her upper lip was far too full – she knew her figure was quite fine, and after a moment’s nervousness she stood proudly before the reverent gaze of the first man ever to look upon her. The damp night air felt cool and refreshing against her skin, the unfamiliar sensation of nudity lending an additional air of enchantment to the moment. When Brock ran his fingers lightly from her shoulders to her hips, Helena moaned in delight. His echoing murmur of appreciation sent a thrill throughout her body, bringing a flush to her already passion-warmed skin._

_Brock stroked and caressed her like a fine piece of silk, letting his eyes take their fill before bringing his lips back to their previous task; now, he ranged more widely, as if determined to learn the taste of her every inch. Soon, without warning, he swept the dazed girl from her feet and carried her to the berth. Laying her down as gently as he might a porcelain dish, he leaned in over her and continued his ministrations, working his way slowly from her shoulders to her hips with caresses and kisses that brought an ever more eager response from Helena._

_Only when he stood poised, his heated lips ready to replace his fingers at her crux, did Helena protest._

_“Benedict, that’s… what are you doing? Can you do that? It seems so… aaah…”_

_“Seems so…?” he murmured, the movement of his jaw only ensuring her inability to reply articulately. Her moan seemed adequate response, and was enough to encourage him to speed his efforts. The novel and singular pleasure was too much for Helena to resist, and in a matter of moments Brock felt her shuddering beneath his touch, and heard those delicate cries of joy that always signaled her ecstasy._

_Smiling, he raised his head at last, watching her face with wonder as her eyes fluttered open to meet his. Without a trace of self-consciousness, Helena lifted a finger to his cheek, wiping off a bit of the moisture she found there and bringing it to her own lips for a taste._

_“Siren,” he whispered, hardening anew at her unwittingly seductive gesture._

_“Am I?” Helena sounded, if anything, puzzled he should think so._

_As, indeed, she was puzzled. By his seeming enthrallment, and by her own lack of caution where he was concerned. At the journey’s beginning, she had disliked him intensely. She remembered this, but could only recall it as though it were part of a story told to her by someone else. Now, somehow, without his actually changing in the least, he felt to her as though he were a long-lost companion, someone she had known all her life and could never dissemble with. Falsehood would be impossible, obviously, he would see straight through to her soul. And so it would be impossible to hide her desire from him; she could not even think how to try._

_Reading the acceptance and yearning on her face, Brock stood then, and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. After a moment, Helena sat up and reached for him, wrapping the linen of the garment in her hands to pull him closer before completing his task for him. She pushed the shirt from his shoulders, pulled his arms free of the sleeves, with a conscientious air; only once finished did she stop to admire what she had revealed. She looked at him appreciatively, smoothing the flats of her hands over the firm planes of his chest. A few very dark hairs accented the crease of his breastbone; they sprung back against her fingers when she traced them down to his ridged belly._

_Almost dizzy with sensation, unable to decide whether to stroke, to look, to taste, Helena leaned forward impulsively, placing her smooth cheek against Brock’s chest where she imagined his heart might be. His arms enfolded her, and she felt one of his hands stealing up her back and delving into her cascading tresses. For a moment, neither moved, and in that moment Helena felt more safe, more at ease, than ever before in her life._

_Then, as if by some unspoken signal, they moved together in a kiss, and all notions of forbearance deserted them in the wake of its intensity. The passion drowned their caution like a treacherous riptide, and they found themselves entwined on the bunk as if by enchantment, Brock’s breeches and boots somehow shed during the madness; they lay crumpled and abandoned on the floor, as their owner stretched himself out along the bunk and pulled Helena close._

_They thrilled in the new sensation of flesh against flesh for but a moment, before their passion overtook them once more. Finally, feverish with need, no longer caring if he was damned or dishonored, caring only to possess and cherish this astonishing creature called Helena, Brock slid his leg over hers and rolled her beneath him, to lie much as they had done a fortnight earlier._

_Helena grasped and clutched at Brock’s back and arms, reveling in the feel of his flesh over hers. Instinctively, she raised her hips when he pressed his forward, and felt him quiver in response. When he shifted his legs, nudging her own slender thighs apart to admit his strong limbs between them, Helena could feel the proximity of her own most sensitive parts and that strange appendage of Brock’s, and began at last to sense what would be required. Indeed, no sooner had she thought this, than he moved his hip and brought himself against her with an intimacy that left no doubt her guess was correct._

_Suddenly fearful, mindful of how large he had felt against her small hand, Helena grew still. Brock looked up at the change, and met her anxious, questioning gaze; he knew at once what was troubling her, and his usually dark countenance brightened a bit with a wry smile._

_“Never fear, sweet Helena. It’s a thing we are made to do. It will only hurt a very little, just at first.”_

_At her shy smile and nod, he kissed her again, and again, stoking the fire of her longing with care and patience until it began to flame once more. Only then, did he press against her, pulling her hand down to grasp him and guide him into place. The strangeness of it all made Helena tense again until, with a short, sharp, thrust, he breached her defenses, stealing away her little cry of pain with another kiss._

_Helena had never felt so many conflicting things at once, and her mind reeled at the effort to encompass them. The pain, unexpected but already fading; the wholly unprecedented sensation of intimacy; the warmth of Brock’s lean body covering hers, and beginning to move in a slow, gentle pulse._

_When he ventured deeper, the angle caused a moment of discomfort, then a sudden flash of pleasure, and Helena gasped and moved against him to find the pleasure once more. Taking her cue, Brock set a firmer pace, leaning down to ravish her mouth again as her sounds of joy and her writhing hips inflamed him further._

_Time seemed to stand still, and the world was reduced to the two of them, their bodies moving in perfect accord, and Helena felt her pleasure building again, traveling inexorably from the core of her body to her extremities, and back again. Reaching, grasping, she let her body learn this new dance; she hardly realized she had cried out Benedict’s name, so consumed was she. At her cry, he replied in kind, and thrust harder still, finally shattering her, releasing the tidal wave of pleasure that carried her aloft, drove her under, and took all breath and thought away._

And there they were.

“Oh, my gods, that was… wait. Something seems –”

“It ends  _there_?”

Snape’s shrill tone snapped Hermione out of the last of her lust-drugged reverie, and into the very real present.

“Yes, it ends there. What do you mean? What are you… why are you still doing that?”

For indeed, almost reflexively, Snape was still moving inside her, although with none of Brock’s recent force, and with a puzzled, slightly frantic expression on his face.

 _I’ve certainly never seen him look like_  that  _before_ , Hermione thought distractedly.

“Because  _I haven’t finished_ ,” Snape hissed, finally bringing his hips to rest with an obvious display of will power. “You ended the bloody chapter too soon.”

“But – of course you finished. That’s how it ends, in a wave of passion,” insisted Hermione, despite the clear evidence that continued to present itself in a manner impossible to ignore.

“Which only overcomes  _Helena_ ,” Snape reminded her. Lest she attempt to ignore the evidence, he flexed his hips to ride against hers more firmly. Then a slow, utterly devious smirk crept over his face as he fathomed the full implications of their current situation. Maintaining the status quo, he knew, was always easier than effecting change. “You’ve left Brock hanging, Hermione. I never would have credited you with such callousness.”

“It’s just a romance novel, for heaven’s sake, it was never meant to be – “

“Mutually fulfilling? A balanced partnership? Then Brock and Helena are not, in fact, twin compasses?”

“Oh, I  _hate_  when you do that.” Now losing some of her post-climactic lassitude, Hermione shifted beneath Snape, clearly preparing to push him off.

“’But thou wilt lose the style of conqueror / If I, thy conquest, perish by thy hate…’ I wonder if the little death would count?”

“Stop using Donne against me, Snape,” Hermione retorted, trying to squirm free.

“Hermione, at the moment it is physically impossible for me to use Donne any other way. And as we’re having sex, I would appreciate it if you would use my given name.”

“We are  _not_  having sex,” Hermione said, then bit her lip in frustration at the clear futility of trying to claim this when they were so obviously having that very thing.

Snape spoke volumes with a single raised eyebrow, then cautiously raised his hand to her face and traced the outline of her lower lip with the tip of his index finger. His intent expression and the precision of his movements made, of his gambit, a curious cross between sensuality and the scientific method. He investigated further, testing the particular texture of the skin over Hermione’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, exploring the possible iterations of hair that might slip and curl about his fingers if they were splayed a certain way against the curve of her neck. Then her shoulder. Then her clavicle and sternum. Then her breast, at which point he released the last lock of hair and allowed it to spring away.

Hermione willed herself to keep her eyes open, as if this could somehow prevent what she knew was now inevitable. When his mouth found her breast, however, her eyes closed in sympathetic response as she flexed her pelvis unconsciously, the sharp pang of pleasure making itself felt in a direct line from nipple to clitoris. And then both of them were moving again, minimally, almost furtively, as if each were trying to escape notice by the other.

“This is such a bad idea,” Hermione whispered.

“If so,” Snape retorted, “you have only yourself to blame.” Impatiently, he kissed her, his thin lips surprisingly supple against her mouth. Then, without warning, he slid one arm beneath her, levering her over and up until their positions were exchanged. “There. You shall continue to have only yourself to blame if you choose to remain.”

“But you’re still holding me on by my hips,” Hermione pointed out, bracing herself above him with an arm on either side of his torso.

“Only for leverage.” He demonstrated, and Hermione tried unsuccessfully to stifle a gasp at the delicious friction that ensued. This emboldened Snape, who took advantage of his new perspective by raising his head to capture one already erect nipple between his lips. His hands moved around to cup her arse firmly, setting a rhythm that echoed his suckling at her breast.

“Such a bad idea…” Hermione whispered again, but she was already done for, and Snape knew it.

Mumbling around her nipple, he replied, “Unless you’re saying my name or screaming in delight, your mouth can remain closed for now.”

“Gods, you’re such a smug bastard,” she snapped, but her head was thrown back, hair tumbling madly down to her waist, and her breathing was becoming more rapid as their pace and urgency increased.

Snape wound the fingers of one hand up into her hair and pulled his head away from her breast to admire the view; in the gray, dim light of the in-between-the-chapters, she seemed almost to radiate warmth and color, the pink of her cheeks and nipples, the mahogany of her hair, and the creamy whiteness of her skin making the most of the single candle’s somewhat listless rays. She looked dreamlike, too good to be true, and for a brief moment he wondered whether she really looked this way during sex, or if it was a trick of the book.

When she sat up fully, lightly raking her fingernails from his chest to his waist as she did so, he ceased wondering and let his mind take a brief hiatus.

Hermione, however, felt her mind click back on. In the way of women everywhere, of course, she was able to keep doing what she was doing with absolutely no hesitation; Snape would have no idea that anything had changed. Not right away, at least. She looked down through her lashes at the man below her, and considered various approaches to this impossible scenario. Imagining him as Benedict Brock… no use, his lips were painted in a half-smirk that fairly screamed “Snape.” Besides, he kept calling her “Hermione,” rather than “Helena,” a dead give-away. Close her eyes and picture… who? It was a troublesome question; when she did fantasize, “out there, it was invariably of Snape. So that was obviously right out. Try to pretend it was just that, a fantasy?

Snape shifted beneath her, lifting his knees, and whispered her name hoarsely. He was clearly no fantasy, except inasmuch as this was only in their heads. He was real, the almost painful rawness of their contact felt more authentic than any sex Hermione had ever had, his hands roaming over her body were not under her control any more than the feelings they evoked, and her heart had never beat so wildly during her fondest imagining of what such a moment between them might be like.

And then, only then, did Hermione finally realize she  _had_  wanted this, wanted it desperately. Not the fantasy, not the romance book, but  _this_. Severus Snape, making love to her, even if it came to nothing, afterwards. Even if he failed, as he surely would fail, to follow up the sex with a declaration of love and a marriage proposal (which had occurred in her earliest fantasies, but been dropped almost immediately as being simply too preposterous even to contemplate). He was  _no_  romance hero, but she had wanted him for years, even knowing he was probably all wrong for her – for anyone, in all likelihood – and this was the inevitable outcome. Better here, surely, than some night after a staff Yule party, both of them drunk, both remorseful and hung over the next day.

“Hermione,” Snape was whispering again. “Where are you?” Long fingers, calloused tips, tilted her head down gently, forcing her to meet his eyes. For a moment that seemed to stretch out forever, she returned his gaze, trying to decide where, in fact, she was. She was startled he had noticed, startled that he cared whether or not she was attending. She had expected selfishness, Snape-ishness, not this… sensitivity. It was unsettling.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted, coming to a halt and caressing his chest absently as she pondered.

“You look miserable. It is hardly conducive.” The smirk had pulled itself down into a frown, now, though not into a full scowl just yet.

“I… got distracted.”

Snape considered her a moment longer and then, with a long-suffering sigh, rolled them both over once again and poised himself over her. He blocked the light, suddenly filling her perspective, the weight of his body reminding her exactly what it was they were up to. He was certainly not to be ignored; he effectively negated any distraction she might have felt.

“It is customary and polite during intercourse,” he said sternly, “to pay  _attention_  to one’s partner.” He took her chin between his fingers, holding her firmly enough to keep her from looking away, and starting moving inside her again with slow, shuddering strokes. “You are  _here_ , with  _me_ , and I am making love to you. So  _pay. Attention._ ” After a moment’s thought, he added in a silky growl, “And say my name.”

“Severus,” Hermione responded without thinking, overcome by a sudden resurgence of arousal at his words, his intensity. She tried to move faster against him, achieve a deeper connection, but he pinned her with his weight and kept to his agonizingly slow thrusts. “Please…”

“So impatient.”

“Oh, gods… how can you stand this?” She had been flung straight to the edge of her climax, was shivering with its proximity, but couldn’t quite find it at this pace; it was excruciating, like nothing she had ever experienced, and Hermione almost wanted it to last forever. Almost.

“I’m not a young man,” he said, his deep voice slightly breathless, belying his attempt to appear impassive. “It does have its benefits. Gods, you’re so beautiful, you're… say it again. Hermione… say it… aah –“ Snape lost his hold at last, and began thrusting harder, faster, only just aware enough to feel gratified at Hermione’s eager response.

She said his name, then, more than once, until she could no longer tell what she was saying, and could only scream in delight. His groans, quieter but no less delighted, followed shortly thereon, and if he said her name in turn as he came, she neither knew nor cared.


	9. Rich...and Strange

A little communication goes a long way.

Unfortunately, Snape and Hermione did not have a little communication.

Instead they had, on his part, smugness, and on her part, self-disgust. Not a felicitous combination. Not a combination boding well for post-coital intimacy, rather one presaging coldness, glares, the snatching of clothes and yanking them on with buttons misaligned, and a certain amount of door – hatch, really – slamming.

Ah, the course of true love never did run smooth.

Or, since we’re having Donne, rather than Shakespeare:

Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,  
But rising makes me doubt, that now 
Thou art not thou. 
That love is weak where fear's as strong as he; 
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, 
If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have… 


Well. Heady stuff. And lots of subtext. But then, why would either of them have expected anything less? Hermione did not want a one-dimensional Quidditch hunk, she would have been bored out of her skull within two days; nor did she kid herself that there was no appeal in the slightly forbidden darkness that pervaded Snape’s persona to this day. But why, why did he have to be smirking at her  _now_? Why did he have to be smug about this, when what she clearly wanted was for him to fall to his knees, profess his adoration, take the whole thing  _seriously_  for heaven’s sake?

But she didn’t  _say_  so, did she? It would have helped.

Snape, while even less forthcoming with the truth than Hermione, was in a way harder hit by her seeming rebuff. For in fact, in the interval of their joining, he had undergone a complete turnaround, from callous opportunism to the unclouded assumption that they would now be together forever. Something in him had decided, and that was that. So why was she being horsy about it  _now_ , when it was so obviously far too late to demur about what they both certainly knew to be true? If he was smug, it was only because he felt no doubt. This was meant to be. Why else would she have done what she had done?

And she might have behaved differently, had he  _said_  so. Which he did not. Of course.

So she grabbed her clothes and the handwritten copy of the book, and stormed off, leaving Snape puzzled and annoyed, deprived of his anticipated post-shag nap. Clearly, she had some issues. And now she stood in the prow of the ship, crying her foolish, conflicted heart out into the eerily motionless water, unable to imagine how she would ever be able to feel happy again.

We’ll leave them there, for now, stewing in their self-induced miseries, and consider the question of “meanwhile.”

 

* * * * *

 

Meanwhile, back at the Weasleys’ shop, Nymphadora Tonks and Minerva McGonagall were on watch over the Happy Couple. As always, Tonks was unabashedly following the story line, providing running commentary. Also as always, McGonagall was pretending to be horrified and prissy, while actually paying avid attention. Who wouldn’t? It was like a horrible Quidditch accident, it was too gruesome but you just couldn’t look away.

And when the salient chapter ended, and the penny dropped, these two ladies looked at one another with dawning realization of the choice that must be facing the Happy Couple. Leading to Tonks’ howls of laughter, and McGonagall’s reserved, “Oh, dear.”

“D’you suppose they –“

“Nymphadora!”

“Oh, c’mon, Tabby, you know they want to.”

McGonagall considered the book for a long moment, and then turned back to her former student with just a hint of a smirk on her face; but with that hint, she conveyed more smirk than the smirkiest smirk Snape had ever managed, and Tonks was impressed despite her continuing guffaws.

“That may be, Nymphadora. But that is no excuse for engaging in inappropriate speculation.”

Tonks kept a straight face for only a moment, and then snickered, prompting a giggle from McGonagall, until soon both of them were weeping with hilarity, leaning on each other for support.

“She left him hanging, I can’t believe she left him hanging,” Tonks gasped.

“I know, I know. And just imagine the look on Severus’ face…” This, from McGonagall, brought on a fresh wave of hysteria, which was refreshed when Tonks pointed to Snape, frozen at the table with his fish-face.

“I don’t have to imagine it, he probably looked just like –“ She demonstrated, her agile features needing no magic to adopt Snape’s goofy mien of astonishment.

Later, when relieved of the watch by Ginny and Harry, the two women reported only, “The deed is done – Clarissa lives.” But they were very, very careful not to meet one another’s eyes.

 

* * * * *

 

Not unlike Snape and Hermione, who were also being very, very careful not to meet one another’s eyes.

Snape didn’t know where she took herself off to. The next time he managed to see Hermione,  _qua_  Hermione, it was following the necessary morning-after scene with Brock and Helena. It was not a wholly cheerful scene, sadly, as Brock was torn by guilt and misgiving, and Helena was distressed by his failure to profess his undying devotion when it seemed clear they were fated to be together. The irony of the reversal was lost on the real-life lovers, however. And unlike Brock and Helena, they did not temporarily resolve their differences by falling straight back into bed together.

As soon as Brock had departed the cabin, abandoning the disheveled Helena to a lonely pre-sunrise but post-coital slumber, the scene cleared and Snape re-entered.

“Where did you go last night?” he demanded darkly.

“I jumped off the side for a quick bathe, then played hide and seek with some porpoises. After that I popped down to the hold for a much-needed cargo inspection.” She had never lifted her eyes from the volume of poetry before her, which she must have snatched up the very second the scene ended.

“Hermione,” he began.

“Severus,” she replied, mimicking his tone, somehow making his name into something he did not care to hear her say. “If you’ve come back for another good time, I’m sorry but you’ll have to wait until, let’s see… I think it’s two chapters from now. They only do it the once more, you know. And I really didn’t detail the last time, come to think of it. Less than the first, even, so there won’t be much at all for you. Then they’re on Gibraltar, and then it’s soon over.”

“Why are you behaving this way?”

Hermione turned a page, still pretending to read. “Severus, I’m sure you’re quite pleased with yourself over this, but it hardly changes things. We can forgive ourselves a moment of madness in all this, it’s been an impossible situation and we’re both under a terrible strain. Anybody might have done the same.”

“Hermione, if you think –“

“Rather than continuing to pick and snipe at each other, why don’t we just give it a rest, and steer clear of one another from now until the end of the book? It’s only a few more days, after all.”

“I had no interest in picking or sniping,” he said, his gaze narrowing to a glare as he began to understand the way she intended to play things. “But perhaps that’s the best I should have hoped for from someone as immature as yourself.”

She looked up, then, eyes snapping with all the emotions she would not be expressing. Instead, she held his gaze and said, very quietly and very clearly, “Please leave now.”

And he did. Damn him, he did.

And after he did, she threw the volume of Donne straight into the closed door after him, laid her head on the table, and began to sob yet again.

 

* * * * *

 

_Sometime after the break of day, Helena woke alone, starting from a nightmare in which a faceless pirate with a hook for a hand had stalked her on the deserted deck of the ship. Heart racing, she looked for Benedict, only to realize he was nowhere in the cabin. The watch bell rang, and looking at the porthole, she saw that it was full daylight._

_Slightly sore, but feeling sated in a way she could not have described, Helena began to pull her clothes on, taking a moment to work a comb through the wild mass of her hair. It was in this act that Benedict caught her, sitting on the bunk, clad only in her skirts and stomacher, arms raised to her task in a way that showed off her bosom to unintentional advantage._

_“What are you doing?” he snapped, surprising the distracted girl. “The morning is half over, the crew will think you’re ill, or… worse. Get up, get your things on.”_

_Puzzled, wounded by his tone, Helena rushed to finish dressing, not sure what to say in response. Benedict was ignoring her, now, flipping through the maps on the table and cursing softly under his breath._

_“Benedict, is everything all right? You’re so… cold. Have I –“_

_“There’s no time. Goldenhook’s ship is approaching; he’ll be alongside us within the hour, we cannot hope to outrun him.” He met her eyes, then, but gave away nothing with his own; he was as closed to her as if they had never shared a tender moment. “This was… very ill-advised,” he finished. Then, without another word, he left her to complete her toilette. Which she did, throat tight, too shocked even to begin to cry. Cry she would, she knew, but not now, and for the numbness she felt, she was thankful._

_Fully clothed at last, hair wound back into the colorful bandeau, she ventured onto the deck, only to be assailed by the shouts and frantic activity of the whole crew as they mustered their defenses. The smaller, faster ship of the pirate was bearing down fast, its progress almost visible to the naked eye. Helena knew, from what Benedict had already told her, that Goldenhook’s vessel outgunned his own, and that their only hope if boarded was to try to negotiate. How they might do that without relinquishing their greatest bargaining chip, Helena herself, Brock either knew not or said not. But he had made dark mention of another plan, something his most trusted crew were working on should it become necessary. Now, too late, Helena wondered what that plan might be, and what part she herself might need to play in it._

_Unwilling to go back below, where she would know nothing, Helena found a spot just aft of the mainmast from which she could observe things without impeding anybody’s progress unduly. She was present, therefore, when the sleek ship of Marius Goldenhook came up broadside. She did not know what to think, when she saw Brock order the white flag run up, when she heard him tell his crew to hold their fire. She only saw his face, grim and closed, as he looked her way at last, approached her, told her to follow his orders, no matter what happened. Then he gripped her by the upper arm and pulled her roughly to the main deck, where a plank had been laid from one ship to the other, and where the pirate was preparing to board._

_“Marius, well met,” said Brock ironically to the man who was crossing the gap._

_Helena finally looked up to see her captor, and was astonished at the sight that met her eyes. For here was no pirate, seedy and coarse, but a gentleman to the bone. Gold alone could not buy the stance, the supercilious expression, the casually refined manners of Marius Goldenhook, though it had clearly paid for the black velvet and emerald green silk of his breeches and waistcoat, the ebony-on-ebony brocade of his coat and rakish eye patch, the diamonds that winked in the sunlight from the signet ring gracing his elegantly gloved hand on the superfluous gentleman’s walking stick he wielded. Unlike his crew, only two of whom had accompanied him over the plank, he smelled of fresh soap and eau de cologne; he was so freshly shaven one could see no beard at all. Though perhaps, Helena thought, that was due to the extreme fairness of his hair, so palely flaxen it was almost silver; it reflected nearly as much sunlight as his jewels did, from where it fell in a sleek wave across his elegantly clad shoulder._

_And then she saw the hook, his namesake, and gasped as it gleamed at her; gold plate, he would be the first to tell anyone foolish enough to ask, because solid gold was far too soft to do any real damage. Then he would laugh, but in a way that bespoke evil far more clearly than any harsh words might have done._

_But Helena only saw the gold, and heard the pirate’s cruel chuckle at her look of dismay and confusion._

_“Brock,” he said dismissively, turning to one of his lackeys and handing the cringing tar his cane. “I suppose this is the girl? Hugo was certainly right, she’s hardly launching a thousand ships with that face, is she?” He looked down his patrician nose at Helena as though he were looking at a horse with only passing fair conformation, certainly nothing he would purchase to improve the stock._

_Brock said nothing, even when Helena made a small noise of affronted pride. Goldenhook raised his maimed appendage, then, and lifted the horribly lovely hook to Helena’s cheek, stroking it as though he could feel her skin through the cold metal._

_“Still,” he mused, “She might prove diverting. It is a long trip back to England, after all.”_

_“You don’t even look like a pirate,” Helena blurted in a panic, cringing away from the hook._

_In reply, Goldenhook glared down at her with icy disdain, lifted one impeccably groomed eyebrow, and in a voice that bespoke generations of good breeding, said, “Yar.”_

_At that, Brock interceded silently, placing one hand between Helena’s terrified visage and the threatening prosthesis. And with his other hand, he flashed a signal to Bentley, who relayed it to the waiting gunners, who fired their waiting loads of fiery iron into Goldenhook’s ship._

_Caught off his guard, realizing the betrayal only too late, Goldenhook tried to snatch up Helena and make his escape. But Helena, ignoring Brock’s shouted admonitions not to try to fight him, kicked and screamed against the pirate’s efforts to drag her to the plank. She did not grasp Brock’s meaning, had forgotten his warning to do as he said, until she felt the evil hook swipe across her belly, nicking the skin as it looped through the layers of fabric and caught her fast, unable to retreat as Goldenhook hauled her away._

_“He’s hooked her, hold off, lads,” Brock shouted, and dove for his pirate foe himself, even as his crew were busy hurling Goldenhook’s unfortunate henchmen over the side. The hook had stymied their plan to throw Goldenhook off as well, and the pistol the pirate was bringing to bear at Helena’s temple complicated things further._

_Even as Benedict pulled up short to reconsider his plans given the new development of the firearm, however, Helena suddenly had a flash of insight and struck firmly at Goldenhook’s arm, knocking the pistol askance as it fired. Brock resumed his attack, and with a cutlass pulled seemingly from nowhere, sliced between Helena and Goldenhook, parting the pirate from both his captive and his surrogate appendage._

_As the two waiting crewmen hauled the startled Goldenhook backward by both arms to pitch him over the railing and into the waiting sea, Helena heard Brock calling her name. But by the time he reached her, her gaze had already fallen upon her midsection with its ghastly hanger-on, and the poor girl had sunk gratefully into unconsciousness._

_Brock worked quickly, freeing the hook from her ravaged clothing, all the while calling frantic directions to his busy crew as they put as much distance as possible from the burning, fast-failing pirate vessel. By the time Helena came to, some time later, she wondered if it had all been a dream, or an odd spell of delusion; the hook was gone, Brock’s heavy wool coat covered her, and the crew had settled into more or less their routine activity. Only the lingering scent of spent gunpowder, and the faint trail of smoke rising in the distance, remained of the harrowing events that had so recently consumed them all._

_Helena still felt in a daze. She let Bentley lead her back to the captain’s cabin, where he turned aside politely to let her tend the small wound she had obtained in the melee, and then plied her with brandy and hot mulligatawny until she agreed to rest. Fearing shock, the kindly old sailor kept watch over her sleep, until the captain arrived after sunset, to relieve him._

_Thus it was that when Helena finally woke again, she found Benedict, looking drawn and exhausted, sitting on the berth at her feet, leaning against the bulkhead as he watched her. She rose slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at the small cut on her stomach, and sat opposite him at the other end of the bunk, unconsciously mirroring his posture._

_“I told you to do as I said,” he muttered eventually, tired of waiting out her expressionless silence. “If you had, he wouldn’t have hooked you, and you wouldn’t…”_

_When his voice trailed off, she raised her eyebrow, feeling suddenly much older than she had that morning. If she had stopped to name the feeling, she might have termed it cynicism. However, she had more pressing matters to consider just then._

_“If you had told me your plan, trusted me, I probably would have done what you said. If you had not been cold to me this morning, when I felt so uncertain, I would have done anything you asked of me. If you or I had shown more forbearance… if, if, if. We’ve built a wall of ‘if’ between us, now, it seems.” She surprised herself by not crying. Instead, she felt only cold fury as she stared at him._

_“Helena, I never meant—“_

_“Never meant what?” she asked bitterly. “Never meant to seduce me? Never meant me to think it was something more? Or perhaps you never meant to kill the crew of that ship on my behalf, for which I do not thank you.”_

_“What?” It was Brock’s turn to demonstrate anger. “You would rather Goldenhook take you? Do you even know what he would have –“_

_“Yes, thanks to you, I rather think I do know. But still I would not have had them all die.”_

_“How dare you compare –“_

_“How dare I? How dare I compare that to what you did?” Helena flung herself from the bunk and stood facing him, fair fully enraged now at his gall. “Ask me last night, what might I have said? Or even this morning, before you said… what was it? Oh, yes, ‘ill-advised.’”_

_He flinched to hear his words thrown back at him, and turned his face away from her. “There are considerations you know nothing about,” he said softly._

_“What considerations,” she asked, “would make your actions last night honorable, if you meant what you said this morning, Benedict? You would toss me aside so lightly, after letting me think…” She trailed off, not knowing any more what she had been thinking, why she had allowed things to progress so far. It had been madness. And there was something more, the lingering questions he had never answered, about why they must continue to Gibraltar, why they could not simply turn back to England, the answers he refused to give despite his obvious longing to tell her._

_“Helena,” he whispered, “never think this meant nothing to me. I do not toss you aside, lightly or otherwise. But neither can I tender you the offer you deserve, or take you back to England as we both desire.”_

_She did not respond, simply waited for him to continue, which he finally did with an expression of resignation, his eyes closed in seeming defeat._

_“You say you were duped by Hugo. Well, no less was I duped by my nephew, and he has me bound now as surely as you would have been bound. Did you believe I ever took part in this scheme willingly, any part at all? Those letters I showed you, in which Hugo details his nefarious plans, those were only one half of the correspondence. You don’t see my replies, in which I first try to dismiss his words as idle jest, then try to dissuade him, then try to threaten him with exposure if he proceeds. Strange, I believed, that he never seemed to be answering my words directly, but always writing back as though he had received some sort of favorable response, some sort of encouragement from me.” Brock’s eyes were open now, but he stared at the bulkhead across from him with a bitterness surpassing any Helena had seen heretofore, as he recalled the perfidy of his nephew. “And then came a final letter, brought by a messenger I knew to be from Goldenhook’s employ. That very cabin boy, in fact, who still serves on this crew. From his look, I think he is some by-blow of the pirate’s, though it matters little who he is, only that his loyalty is questionable._

_“The message he carried was the only one that really mattered, for in it Hugo demanded to meet with me, stating he had certain documents I might find interesting, and that if I valued my reputation I had better follow his lead in this matter. It was at that meeting, a few days afterwards, he showed me the third set of letters. Those he had forged over my signature, in my hand, using my true writing as his guide. He had the gall to laugh at my naivety; he said the more I wrote to persuade him, the better he was able to copy my style. Those letters, held against me if I did not do as he said. My cooperation, the ransom for the return of the true letters. If I refused, or arrived at Gibraltar too late, or if Goldenhook was unable to secure you and arrive by his appointed date before mine, if anything led him to believe I had contacted my brother or the authorities, he would take the false correspondence to the magistrate on Gibraltar, and I would arrive there only to be imprisoned.” For the first time since he began his tale, he looked over at Helena, who was still standing by the berth; she had placed one slender hand along the rail for support, and the color had drained from her face as the import of his words finally struck her._

_“On Gibraltar,” Benedict explained, “Hugo’s disgrace is still unknown; he has some small business interests there that lend him credence with the local establishment, and his less legitimate connections have enabled him to maintain a lifestyle in keeping with his image as a favored eldest son and heir. And I am nothing, as far as they know, but a disgruntled second son left to grub his fortune through any means possible. Even that of attempting to discredit and defame his innocent nephew.”_

_When Helena realized, with sudden horror, just how steep a price Benedict had paid to keep her from harm’s way, she gave a little cry and flung herself at him, weeping as she peppered his face with kisses and apologies._

_“But I’ll tell them,” she insisted, clinging to him as if for dear life. “I’ll tell them what Hugo has done, and what you did to save me from Goldenhook, and they’ll take him instead. And then we—“_

_“Helena,” he interrupted, holding her face between his hands, “don’t you think Hugo has considered that? You will be the sweet, naïve girl, drawn in by my treachery, and if you refuse to marry him you’ll still be stranded there, at his mercy. And try as I might, I haven’t been able to think how to solve this.”_

_“I will never marry Hugo,” Helena said firmly. “How could I, when I love you…”_

_“Don’t. Helena, you can’t. You mustn’t—“_

_“I do.”_

_“You don’t know what you’re saying, silly thing, you—“_

_“Stop it! Unless you think me the simpering idiot Hugo thought me, then stop, and let me say this.” When he made no further move to interrupt, she went on in a rush. “I do love you, and I never loved Hugo. I was foolish then, perhaps, but not about this. And we will find a way through this, Benedict. We will, because we must. That’s all there is to it.” Her eyes, huge and luminous, met his, and finally began to spill the tears that had been threatening._

_He pulled her close, drew her up to rest in his lap, and kissed the tears from her cheeks until they subsided, gave way to deeper emotions, and she began to kiss him back. Earnestly she embraced him, fearing for what the morrow might bring, and what might await them on Gibraltar. So enamored of the idea of that isle just weeks ago, Helena now dreaded its prospect. Two days, Benedict had mentioned, until they arrived. Just two days to think how to outmaneuver Hugo, to save Benedict, and they had no idea where to start._

_And so they started by using some of that precious time with one another, each learning the shape and feel of the other’s body in the candlelight, the thought that this might be the last time lending each caress a bittersweet poignancy. His lips on her breast, her hand curled behind his neck, the building anticipation of their joining, each motion towards that inevitable end was seared into Helena’s memory forever, as into Benedict’s._

_Stretching out along his length, savoring their contact, Helena shyly whispered her avowal of love again, caring not whether he returned her sentiment. When he did, the sound of those sweet words issuing from him before he took her lips in a rapturous kiss made her joy, despite all that might come to pass, complete._


	10. Message, Not In a Bottle

Hermione tried to jump up from the berth immediately, but Snape had anticipated her, and caught her mouth under his again. She thwacked at his chest rather ineffectually, and pushed at his shoulder until he finally gave over.

“Cheap trick,” she snorted, sitting up and yanking Helena’s discarded dress and petticoats over her chest and lap.

Not to be deterred, Snape took advantage of her still-exposed back, and began pressing kisses along her spine. He snuck an arm around her waist to hold her in place, bypassing the protective layer of clothing and slipping his hand directly over her skin.

“You can hardly blame me. Brock was aroused, so I’m aroused. As are you, and it seems criminally foolish to waste it.”

“Snape… stop,” she said, but he seized on the indecision in her voice and the fact that she hadn’t moved away or actually punched him yet, and kept his arm in place.

“Why? We’ve already done it, after all.”

“How romantic,” she replied sarcastically. “That’s just what a girl longs to hear. ‘We might as well, damage already done.’ Were you planning to chat me up with that much charm back at work, or just shout down the hall that we might as well since we’ve already done it anyway?”

“Back at… is  _that_  what this is all about?” She remained silent, which he took to be an affirmative. “There are certain aspects of my character I will not have questioned, Hermione, and one of those is my discretion.” He withdrew his arm, and the sudden coolness around her waist was echoed in the chill of his tone. “You, of all people, should know better.”

“I do know better, and for that remark I apologize. But not for the sentiment behind it, because my concern still stands.”

“Duly noted.”

She turned around to look at him. He had drawn away to rest against the back wall of the berth, the sheet wound around one bent knee and over his lap, the other leg stretched out, foot dangling off the edge of the bunk next to her. His chest was exposed, which seemed at odds with his shuttered expression; he might as well have been wearing buttons up to his neck again, and the sudden change tugged at Hermione’s heart unexpectedly.

“I know you would never do something like that,” she reiterated, more gently.

Snape cast about in his mind for the last time anyone had said those particular words to him, but eventually gave up, realizing nobody ever had. About anything. And now she was looking at him, with those amazing eyes, and he felt compelled to say something nice in return; this happened so rarely that he required a long moment in which to think up something nice, and she had almost given up and turned away when he stopped her.

“You always… defended me to them. Insisted on my title, tried to set them straight in class. And at first I believed you were just toadying up. In fact I believed that for years. But eventually I… came to reassess your motivation. And knew it was not self-serving. Your, ah, efforts were sadly wasted, I think. But they were noticed. And even appreciated.” Snape had grown increasingly uncomfortable under her fixed stare, and began to wish he were, in fact, wearing his frock coat, his comfortable shield and support in most situations involving women. “I just… thought you should know,” he finished rather lamely.

“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this right now,” Hermione admitted, “but it’s very nice to know. Thank you.” She stared at him, still, more unnerved by Snape’s sudden honesty than she had been by his earlier display of sensitivity.

She wondered, then, whether she knew him at all, and realized she knew several different versions of him, but had no idea which if any was the real one. Not the traitor, of course, that version had been long since discounted. Not the monstrous teacher, whose worst qualities had owed more to the skewed lens of young adulthood through which she had first seen him, than to what she now knew of his teaching habits. The heroic Snape, she had seen as a child and saw still, dark and forbidding though he was. The reclusive, defensive Snape who wore his personality like a prickly barrier against the harm people might do his ego, she knew to be present at all times as well. Along with his close cousin, the Snape whose tongue cut like a knife.

But what of the dry-witted, scholarly Snape who had made it his habit to occupy her Thursday evenings with decent wine and finely honed debate about literature? Or, indeed, the Snape she had come to think of now as Severus, the one whose fingertip she could still feel tracing her bottom lip? Which one of all those was the one sitting here, looking inarguably fanciable draped in the sheet, and what would that one do when they got back to the real world?

“Severus,” Hermione found herself asking, although she hadn’t really planned to, “what happens when we get back to work in a few days? What has this actually been, to you? That’s what I need to know, that’s what’s bothering me.” And with this confession off her chest, she suddenly felt much better about the whole ridiculous situation. This, despite the fact that Snape looked horribly taken aback by her directness.

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I never think along these lines. I’ve never done this sort of thing, this, this—“

“Relationship?” suggested Hermione.

He acknowledged the word with a nod and a bleak wave of one hand, but he looked far from happy about it. “Do we have to discuss this right now?”

“I don’t really do this sort of thing either. If it had been left to me, I would have probably let you bring me wine once a week for the rest of my life and never had the nerve to make a move on… well, to mention that, erm… what?” This last, because he was looking at her oddly.

“A move?” He sat forward a bit, leaning into her space just enough to infringe. “You wanted to make a move? I never suspected.” The smug, smirking Snape, one Hermione had forgotten about, was back in force; she always wanted to smack that Snape.

“And you never would have,” she said pointedly. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe me if I try to claim I find you unattractive. But your physical type hardly excuses your appalling personality, Severus. Besides, it would have been inappropriate and foolish. We work together, we can’t be sleeping together. What if the students found out? What if we didn’t suit, we’d have to see each other every day, it would be awful.”

“It hasn’t seemed to stop any of the others,” Snape replied.

“Others? What do you mean?”

“The others. Hermione, surely it has not escaped your notice that the staff of Hogwarts has the collective celibacy rate of the average brothel on a brisk weekend?” At her look of frank disbelief, he rolled his eyes and clarified. “Albus and Minerva, for decades they were essentially living together and nobody raised an eyebrow. Aurora and Septima have been living in unabashed Sapphic splendor together for at least five years; they alternate living quarters by the term. Pomona has some sort of standing arrangement with someone she meets a few times a month in Hogsmeade; we’ve never been able to pry a name out of her, but it’s always interesting to see her reaction when a new candidate’s name is proposed—“

“You’re making this up.”

“I don’t have to. It’s no more than you would find out if you stopped paying so much attention to Minerva at those interminable faculty meetings and took a look around you. Now, where was I? Oh, Hooch. Well, perhaps the less said there, the better. Hooch is really a bit frightening, even to me. Need I continue? Filius –“

“No, that’s quite enough, I believe you,” Hermione said, trying desperately to wipe the last name from her memory before any untoward imagery arose. “But that’s hardly better than ‘might as well,’ is it? ‘Everybody else is doing it’?”

Snape sighed, rubbing his fingers along the bridge of his nose as if his proboscis were tense and in need of a massage. “What would you have me say, Hermione? That I worship you, that my life means nothing without you? A pledge of undying love, a proposal, what? I don’t  _do_  this because I am not  _good_  at this. In case it has escaped your notice, I dislike almost everyone, almost everyone dislikes me, and after many years of self-imposed solitude I have come to the conclusion that this state of affairs results from almost everyone’s being a complete, blundering, arsewipe. And I fail to understand why nobody else seems to notice this.”

Hermione had stared at him throughout this unexpected stream of self-disclosure, her eyes widening. She couldn’t restrain the weary chuckle that crept out when he finished, though his scowl instantly deepened to hear it.

“Severus,” she started, then paused to consider how to say it. Finally, she decided he would never understand anything less than bluntness. “ _Everyone_  thinks that about almost everyone else. You’re just supposed to lie and pretend you don’t think so.”

“You mean—“

“Yes. Really. That’s what we all do. Anyone with half a brain, anyway. I assume you count me one of the lucky few who does have half a brain, and isn’t a blundering arsewipe. Charming expression, by the way.”

He considered her for a moment, still scowling but this time more thoughtfully. After a moment, impatient, she continued.

“What you need to understand, Severus, is that every one of us is an idiot at one time or another, about something. You and I are no exceptions. And sometimes, the best we can hope for is to realize we’re being idiots, and do something different the next time the opportunity arises.” This last, she seemed to be saying as much to herself as to Snape. As she spoke, she began pulling Helena’s clothes on and moving towards the hatch.

Turning the handle, she paused and took one last look at Snape, who still sat on the berth, befuddled and struggling for words. Before he could find them, she was through the hatch and gone.

 

* * * * *

 

_Helena ran through the steep, narrow streets, her fingers clutching the hastily drawn map like a lifeline. The second left, then a right into the alley up the hill, look for the window box with dead geraniums. Number ten… and there it was, and just as the cabin boy had told them the latch on the window to the left of the back door was broken, and the shutter slid up easily to admit her._

_Then inside as quickly as she could go, her skirts less inconvenient when tucked scandalously about her waist. No time to consider that, or the risk that the pretty lad had been lying when he offered to help, when he told his tale of ill-treatment at the hands of the man who had denied his claim to kinship in the face of overwhelming evidence. And he had been right about the way to this house, she saw, right about the window, and right, she soon discovered, about the small locked box in the large mahogany secretary in the room across the hall._

_Not bothering to look for a key, Helena took the whole box, slipped back out through the window, and made her way back down the hill toward the harbor. Rounding a corner, she screamed in alarm when her way was suddenly blocked by a large, golden, ape-like creature that looked equally alarmed to encounter her. Baring its yellow teeth and hooting shrilly, it disappeared over the low wall that separated the path at this point from the rocky hillside below._

_Heart racing, Helena collapsed on the knee-high abutment, inadvertently losing her hold on the wooden letter-box as she did so. It knocked against the edge of the wall and landed on the path with a thunk, popping neatly open as it did so._

_Helena could scarcely believe her eyes, but wasted no time in snatching up the letters and freeing them from the ribbon with which they were bundled. All there, just as Benedict had said, and grateful tears slipped down her flushed cheeks as Helena kissed the sheaf of papers, folded them again, and thrust them into the deep pocket of her traveling cloak._

_A soft crunching noise drew her eyes back down the path. The ape, or his twin, was sitting on the wall not far from her now, regarding her calmly as he devoured a piece of unfamiliar fruit with an uncannily human fastidiousness._

_Steering wide of the strange simian, Helena continued down the hill at a trot, her hand straying to her pocket every few minutes to reassure herself that the vital letters were still there._

_Now, the first road at the bottom of the hill. Turn to the right, and look for the brass plate by the door – there. The magistrate’s office._

_Offering another silent prayer that the hastily conceived plan would work, that she would not simply find herself thrown in jail alongside Benedict for her recent housebreaking activities, she opened the imposing wooden door and stepped inside to present the evidence that would free her lover and incriminate her faithless former fiancé._

Snape looked over from the framed map of the island he had been perusing on the wall behind the magistrate’s clerk’s desk, and nodded silently at Hermione. She waved back feebly, still gasping for air, and flopped inelegantly onto one of the wooden chairs lining the opposite wall.

“You aren’t really out of breath, you just think—“

“Don’t start. You’re not the one who had to do it.”

He shrugged in reply and turned back to the map, tracing the contours of the island with one finger.

“This is an anachronism. The paper is too smooth and white not to be modern, and the ink looks like something from a Muggle computing machine thing, the printing press thing.”

“The… _printer_.” Hermione had little patience with the wizarding world’s pretense of being unable to learn even the simplest, most logical Muggle terms.

“I suppose. How long until the next scene?”

“Not long. Perhaps an hour at most. We finish here with your release, then proceed down to the docks where Hugo and the miraculously surviving Goldenhook are brought forth in irons; highly satisfying, that. We learn that the tide will be right to depart just before sunset, so time is of the essence in preparing to leave. The kindly magistrate will also marry us, but not in the scene; that one ends with the proposal, we don’t see the wedding. Then there’s another break of perhaps thirty minutes or so, during which the ship is embarking. After that, just a few minutes of heartfelt snogging by the light of the setting sun, and it should all be over.”

To her surprise, after a long moment he asked, “And then?”

She hesitated just a fraction of a second longer than she should before answering. “And then you lead with _Tarantallegra_ , I hex all their hair off while they’re dancing, and we finish together with  _Testis Infructosus,_ thereby ensuring their tainted genetic code will end with them. And I may improvise and throw in something with boils or a fungal growth, I haven’t decided yet.”

“They won’t be there,” he said, surprising her again. “They are not complete ars—idiots.” She could tell it cost him to admit this.

“High praise, indeed.”

“We will track them down eventually, of course. I was not referring, however, to our course of action immediately following our release, rather to—“

“Yes, I know.”

“I see.” The cold had descended between them again, and neither spoke another word during what remained of the hiatus.

 

* * * * *

 

_As the still-bellowing Hugo and the indignant Marius Goldenhook were led off, irons clanking, Benedict took Helena in his arms, embracing her as though they had been parted a year, rather than just the few hours since she had slipped away from the docking ship in the dinghy, bent on her perilous errand._

_He kissed the top of her head fondly and whispered his words of love and praise, not able to show how he truly felt with the magistrate and most of the crew looking on. But her eyes bespoke her understanding, even as his promised to carry on later, in private._

_“All thanks we owe to you, good sir, but we must make haste and take our leave if we are to catch the tide in time to depart this evening.” Benedict bowed gracefully to the magistrate, who clasped his hand warmly then beamed down on the two of them with an avuncular twinkle in his eye. Leaning closer to the captain, he whispered something in his ear that cause Benedict to raise his eyebrows, and then glance at Helena with something nearly like a blush. But he nodded to the old jurist without hesitation. Then he turned to Helena and surprised her yet again by taking her hand in his own and sinking to one knee before her._

_“My dear lady,” he said, his eyes full of feeling, “as this gentleman has so kindly pointed out, we no longer have any impediment to seeking that which I know we both desire. And as you came here planning to return to England a married woman, and this magistrate had intended this day to see you become a Mrs. Brock, will you… Helena, my love, before we return home, will you do me the singular honor of letting this gentleman make you my wife?”_

_Helena burst instantly into happy tears, and could only nod her eager assent to her anxious lover, who radiated joy to see with what success his proposal had met. And then, with the crew cheering him on, and in gleeful disregard of propriety, he rose to his feet and swept his soon-to-be wife in his arms again, this time kissing her so soundly as to leave no doubt of his adoration or his passion._

Never one to miss an opportunity, Snape kept right on kissing, as though if he played it right, Hermione might not notice the scene had ended. Against her better judgment, she not only let him carry on for quite some time, but participated with a skill that put the novice Helena to shame. It was, after all, her last opportunity as well.

Nor did she bring things to a halt when his hand found her breast and traced its contours through her dress. Nor at the next logical stopping point, when he backed her up against a stock of shipping crates and pressed himself against her suggestively. Only when his hand took an awkward turn trying to reach down into her décolletage, tearing the fragile lace and muslin, did she come up for air.

“You ripped my bodice.”

“Well, it is a bodice ripper.” He dove for her mouth again, but she dodged out of the way, leaving him to connect nose-first with the side of a crate instead. “Tease,” he called after her, cupping his wounded snout gingerly.

“You started it,” she retorted from the relative safety of the gangplank, disgusted with herself but more than willing to take it out on him.

“You wrote it,” he shot back childishly. “And it is complete and utter rubbish, might I remind you.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t complaining about that a minute ago.”

“I was blinded by my libido, and momentarily lost all my sense of good taste.” He spun around and walked away to the far end of the dock, the gesture losing only a little of its drama by the lack of swirling robes to finish it off.

 

* * * * *

 

Perhaps not every one of us is a blundering arsewipe. But we are, all of us, fools for love. Poets and playwrights have made their livings for centuries helping each new generation of fools rediscover this simple truth. We are even fools for the possibility of love, because falling in love requires that we embrace possibility, even more than it requires us to embrace another person.

So this was all in their minds… where else does one fall in love? Especially these two, who were nearly all mind to begin with? But a narrator, like a poet or a playwright, has the advantage of omniscience. Not so, the hapless characters in the story, or the story-within-the-story.

And so, as soon as Benedict and Helena’s final romance-novel kiss ended against the backdrop of the setting sun with the watch bells for music, and Snape and Hermione were plunged rudely back into reality for the first time in months, we can forgive them if the first thing each did was to make a nasty face at the other (hers, a glare, and his, a sneer).

The second thing they did was to follow through on their plan regarding the Weasley twins, who slipped at least two notches in Snape’s estimation and Hermione’s by actually being present at the novel’s end, and by leaving their victims’ wands in their pockets instead of removing them as would have been prudent.

As he ushered Hermione from the room, sidestepping the now prancing, bald, fungus-infested entrepreneurs and wholly ignoring the shouted questions from the rest of the clamoring onlookers, Snape paused just long enough to sweep a blistering gaze across the room and pronounce his judgment on all of them.

“Arsewipes,” he said coolly, and then turned back around just in time to see Hermione stepping out the shop door and Apparating away.


	11. Dry Land

Despite the best efforts of the conspirators, the story of the missing masters had leaked, and within a day of their return Snape and Hermione were being mobbed by reporters. Fred and George, knowing free publicity when it knocked at their door, had been rather more forthcoming with details about the book than either member of the Happy Couple might have preferred; the press, knowing a ripe story when they smelled one, wasted no time in trying to spin things even more salaciously.

If Hermione knew one thing, however, it was how to manipulate the press. In this case, she determined the best way to stifle the salivating reporters was to tell them absolutely everything (or at least “everything”) in excruciating detail. And so she told them about the book and about the fantasy-Pensieve hybridization process, leaving out only a few vital steps in accordance with her contract, to prevent duplication. She explained the multidimensional visual and semantic mapping procedure she had employed, with a lengthy digression regarding the role that the mechanics of that procedure had played in arresting the scenic dynamics during the temporal intervals between scripted, or narrative, and non-narrative subdivisions of the overall textual span. In loving detail, she described the research involved in recreating a 17th-century sailing vessel, even going so far as to provide specific source citations, a recommended reading list, and an annotated visual quick-reference.

In short, she bored them to tears, and the very enthusiasm with which she relayed her scholarly tale made most of them inclined to assume nothing untoward could have possibly occurred with such a hopelessly uninteresting participant.

On the rare occasion a reporter did bother to ask about the more lurid aspects of the book, Hermione simply replied to the effect that “the physical manifestations within the context of the narrative were appropriately realistic, but the lack of descriptive detail during the interspliced real-time aberrations… That is to say,” she would demur, with a beautifully calculated self-deprecating chuckle, “in lay terms it was all really quite dull. Professor Snape and I had very little to do other than read and argue, and talk about what sorts of food we would eat first when we got out. Mostly argue, I’m afraid, as we disagreed somewhat regarding the relative merits of Jane Austen and John Donne, the only two authors available to us.” By this time, the reporters had invariably begun flipping their notebooks closed, putting away their quills, and shuffling their feet, time-honored signals that the interview was over.

Snape’s route to a journalist-free experience was even more straightforward. After he had muttered a few words that turned the first intrepid reporter’s notepad into something very like a tiny but ferocious version of Hagrid’s belovedMonster Book of Monsters, he had found himself untroubled by any further reporters. He even had the grace to send the unfortunate hack a counter-hex, which he could use to change the notebook back to its original form… as soon as his fingers grew back far enough to hold a wand.

And thus, by their policy of, on the one hand, near-total and tedious honesty, and on the other hand, privacy enforced under pain of maiming, Hermione and Snape were able to silence the reporters within a week or so, and return to their daily routines of teaching, patrolling the halls, and squabbling over the best biscuits at the faculty meetings, as if they had never missed a day.

 

* * * * *

 

It was just over a fortnight after their return, at nearly nine o’clock on a Thursday night, when Hermione was startled from her reading by a knock at the door. She was still more startled to see Snape standing there with a bottle of better-than-average pinot noir, and a slim leather-bound volume of Donne’s holy sonnets.

“In the interest of returning to things as usual,” he commented blandly, waggling the book in front of her face in what he hoped was a tempting way. She swatted it away somewhat dubiously, but allowed him to enter, and even went so far as to fetch two glasses while giving herself time to ponder this new development. Or rather, this resumption of a prior routine. She had come to no conclusion by the time she returned to find Snape just reaching into the top drawer of the small hutch in which she kept items such as scissors, her quill-sharpening things, empty inkwells, and the corkscrew.

“Carafe, or just leave it?” he asked casually, wielding the corkscrew with practiced ease before returning it to the drawer. She remembered, suddenly, the first time he had opened a bottle without his wand, upon her challenge that he could never do this task the Muggle way; now, he always used the corkscrew, as if he enjoyed reminding her that he could. And now he knew where she kept the corkscrew, and he felt at liberty to go and use it without asking.

“Leave it,” she replied. “I didn’t think to bring one out.”

“Very well.”

“The holy sonnets? Aren’t you tired of Donne?” She sat down on her small settee, trying not to anticipate whether Snape would vary his usual practice and sit beside her rather than in the customary chair opposite.

The chair. However, a minor variation, in which he dragged it around the low table, perpendicular to the settee, and used the cushion next to Hermione as a footrest. He had worn shoes, rather than boots, and they slipped off easily, revealing perfectly normal black dress socks. No holes, Hermione noted with approval, before dragging her attention back to the book in her hands.

“Tired of Donne?” Snape was answering. “Donne to death? Never. Why, did you have something else in mind?”

“Some _one_  else? Somebody more modern. Maybe… Pablo Neruda?”

Snape made a face. “Nothing involving the sea, please. T. S. Eliot?”

“It needn’t always be a Muggle, you know, it’s all the same to me.”

“He wasn’t.”

“…oh.”

So they argued about the many ways in which April might be considered the cruelest month, and about the use of anesthesia as a metaphor (death, or merely a soul-sickening numbness?). They reflected on Eliot’s own notes on his text, and debated the geography of the poems; Hermione insisted the places were identifiable within a purely Muggle frame of reference or as archetypal cultural symbols, while Severus maintained Eliot was describing only actual magical locations that Muggles knew nothing about.

And thus the evening passed, companionably enough and with less tension than Hermione had initially feared. They left half the bottle untouched, as each had piles of marking to catch up on, and Severus took his leave without ado just before eleven-thirty.

Not until she had locked the door, corked the bottle, and gathered the two glasses to return them to the tiny kitchenette, did Hermione notice the book left on the couch. She thought she recognized it as the one Severus had brought with him, but upon closer inspection found it was not the holy sonnets, but the same set of songs and sonnets they had read so many times through on the ship.

As she lifted it, a slip of paper fell from between its pages to float gently down to the seat. She retrieved the scrap of parchment, knowing before she even looked whose spiky scrawl she would find there. His message was deceptively simple, reading only, “ _It’s the one that begins, ‘Dear Love, for nothing less than thee…’ Just that one verse, the rest doesn’t quite fit. Let me know in your own time – Severus (not Brock)._ ”

Smiling despite herself, she turned to the page, although she already knew full well the verse he meant her to read.

 

 _Dear love, for nothing less than thee_  
_Would I have broke this happy dream;_  
_It was a theme_  
_For reason, much too strong for fantasy._  
_Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet_  
_My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it._  
_Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice_  
_To make dreams truths, and fables histories;_  
_Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,_  
_Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest._

 

And she would, she decided. She would let him know, though it would be in her own time. And then Hermione, who had just that morning received the first of the incredibly large cheques she was to earn from the Weasleys’ marketing of her slightly re-engineered novel, rinsed out her wine glasses, donned her comfortably shabby dressing gown, and sat down at her desk to begin marking the stack of essays that awaited her. When she went to bed that night she would do so alone, but with a smile on her face, knowing there would not be many more solitary nights in her future.

But all  _that_ , dear readers, is a story for another day.


End file.
